


The Mirror Man

by HigherMagic



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Bottom Daryl Dixon, Divorce, F/M, M/M, Murder, Mystery, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2017, Original Character(s), Quests, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rickyl Writers' Group, Smoking, Top Rick Grimes, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-10 17:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 87,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Every soul is like a bucket, with the ability to be filled with sin and righteousness in equal measure. When Lucifer is charged with getting a certain soul into Heaven, he doesn't exactly think he's the man for the job, but when God gives you a mission, you take it. Rick Grimes has a soul unlike he's ever seen before, and as the dead start rising and closing in around them, it's clear that this not-so-simple task is about to get a Hell of a lot more complicated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was my NaNo for this year. You'll notice a similar theme to my last one.
> 
> It started out as an idea pitched to me by my friend who didn't have the confidence to finish it on his own, then I turned it into a one-act screenplay for school, and then it kind of...evolved. I'm having a lot of fun with it so far, it's not finished, but I'm hoping you guys like it as it unfolds.
> 
> I was raised Catholic and am really into angels, and I did my best to try and explain a lot of the Biblical references as best I could, but there's a lot of them (way more than in Astride), so please don't hesitate to ask for clarification on things if they don't seem to be explained well throughout the story.
> 
> Anyway, that's it from me for now. This NaNo consumed my writing so I'm hoping to get back into my other fics very soon. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for the double spacing, but at this point there's just no way to go back and fix it all. 72k in and I don't have that kind of energy, lol.
> 
> Enjoy!

God's house is an unassuming place. It is a little white house on top of a hill, overlooking the English moors. In the distance lies a town, sprawling and dark with tiny, twinkling lights to mark humanity's resistance against the coming night. There is a narrow dirt road that leads from the front steps, through a wide field which cuts sharply at a stone wall. From there, a single-lane road lazily winds its way down to the town, and merges onto the main road leading in.

 

There is a candle in the front window of the little white house, flickering heartily despite the cool and damp air. The walls inside the house are painted with the dancing shadows cast by the welcoming fire, burning away in the hearth.

 

Through the house, past the pristine sea-foam kitchen and the large Grandfather clock sitting in the foyer; past the luxuriously padded corduroy recliners and the piles of haphazardly-stacked books; past the fat orange cat that blends perfectly with the carpet on the stairs and the gentle hum of French opera; there is a room.

 

The innards of the room are white, and glow as though lit from within by a thousand shards of sunlight. They fracture and reflect in dazzling rainbow colors along the walls, and the large round table in the center of the room. The table is made of glass to deter cheating.

 

There are six chairs around the table, spaced equally apart. Three of them are empty.

 

One of the room's occupants pulls a deck of playing cards towards him and shuffles them with a low hum. He is a genteel, soft-looking man, the kind of person who used to fight in a war and now has retired to his books and his fireplace. His brown hair is tightly curled in a direct protest to his iron-flat mustache.

 

"Looks like it's just us three tonight, boys."

 

Beside him, another man nods in acceptance. He has been wearing the same set of white robes since he arrived here. The fabric soaks up the rainbow reflections from the walls. The only stain to mar the clothing is the large gash of red across his side. His hands, when he rests them against the top of the table, have large holes in them from the nails.

 

"Would you mind? You'll get blood on the table."

 

"Oh, sorry."

 

The third man shifts in place, rolling his eyes. He has his feet up on an unoccupied chair, his whole body relaxed into a disrespectful slouch. He grins at the robed man and pushes his sunglasses up on his head so that they can see him wink.

 

"C'mon, Mett. Little blood never hurt anyone."

 

"I disagree. Would you sit up straight? And don't call me 'Mett'."

 

The third man is younger than his peers. A stranger looking at him would place him no older than a college junior. He sighs and straightens up, planting his sneakers on the floor and pushing himself forward in his chair, so that his elbows are resting on the table.

 

"Hey, Golden Boy. Let's play 'Who can gross Metatron out first'."

 

"Don't talk to your brother like that," Metatron says, scolding and glaring at the younger man.

 

"Lighten up, Metatron," comes the reply. The robed man smiles. "When will you learn I'm not going to make a bet with you, Lucifer?"

 

"There's always the Apocalypse," Lucifer says with another wink.

 

Metatron lets out an impatient-sounding noise. "Are you two  _quite_ done?" he demands, lacing his fingers around the deck of cards in preparation to deal them out. Lucifer holds up his hands in surrender and sits back. "Honestly, Jesus, you shouldn't let him goad you like that."

 

"Who's goading who? Do you feel goaded, o brother mine?" Lucifer asks, grinning when Jesus rolls his eyes and takes his dealt hand.

 

"I'm starting to think feeling 'goaded' is just a side effect of being around you," Jesus replies.

 

Lucifer blinks at him. "Was that…was that sarcasm?" he asks, and puts a hand to his chest as though the shock has given him a heart attack. "Oh, happy days! There's hope for the next generation yet!"

 

Jesus sighs, pointedly ignoring Lucifer while they all examine their cards. "No one needs to trade out?" Metatron prompts, and Jesus and Lucifer shake their heads. "Alright. I'm in for five. Flip the first card."

 

Jesus and Lucifer each slide their tokens into the center of the pile. They do not play for chips. The tokens resemble small golden drops of liquid that move and flow within a small, plasticky shell, like marbles. "Five is good," Jesus says, and flips the first card.

 

"Son of a bitch," Lucifer mutters as Jesus grins and takes the Wild, sticking it into his hand. Lucifer bites his lip and drums the edge of his cards on the table as Jesus considers his hand, and then discards a four.

 

Lucifer rolls his eyes and draws a card. A Queen. He puts her with the other, and discards a six. In his hand the Queen waves to the other one brightly, and the toucan on the six spreads its wings and opens its large beak in a soundless cry.

 

"I'll raise two," Lucifer says, sliding two more of his tokens in before Metatron can draw.

 

Metatron glares at him. "Didn't you learn your lesson from last time?"

 

"I'm offended. What gave you the impression that I ever learn my lesson?"

 

Jesus lets out a soft laugh, hiding his smile behind his cards. Metatron huffs, but before he can draw, the door to the room opens. Bright light spills inside as the door closes again and Lucifer straightens up and lowers his sunglasses to shield his eyes from the all-encompassing glow.

 

MAY I PLAY? God asks, His voice echoing around the room in a soft whisper.

 

Lucifer cocks his head to one side, as though trying to scratch his ear with his shoulder. "You cheat," he says. "No way."

 

OMNISCIENCE DOES NOT COUNT AS CHEATING.

 

Lucifer rolls his eyes. "Sure."

 

Metatron smirks. "You sure you should be casting that first stone?"

 

Lucifer looks at him. "Offended again! What  _I_ do is carefully refined odds.  _Not_ cheating."

 

Metatron rolls his eyes, straightening up and looking back at his cards. "Yeah, okay."

 

LUCIFER, MAY I SPEAK WITH YOU FOR A MOMENT?

 

Lucifer looks up, squinting even with his sunglasses. The glow around God is incredibly bright: no angel, fallen or otherwise, can ever look upon Him when in His true form. After a moment Lucifer nods, knowing that being asked is merely a formality. He lays down his cards.

 

"Guess you guys should see if Gabrielle's free or something."

 

"No," Metatron says, shaking his head fiercely. "All she does is talk about her band."

 

"What? It's good music."

 

"It's not  _music_ , it's just  _noise_ ," Metatron replies, grumpy and agitated.

 

Lucifer laughs. "You would know all about noise," he says.

 

Metatron glares at Lucifer and Lucifer grins right back at him, unable to hide the glee he feels at riling up his brother so easily. Metatron has always been so easy to nitpick at. He's so sensitive to propriety and manners. He wouldn't last one day with the mortals, that's for certain.

 

"It's not fun to play with just two," Jesus says.

 

Metatron sighs.

 

Lucifer nods and leaves the table, following the glow out as the doors open to reveal the rest of the house. As soon as they close, the glow starts to take shape and grow dim. God normally takes the form of a small, homely, mother-like figure nowadays. Since He conceived Jesus with Mary, He had become a lot calmer.

 

Lucifer follows God to the front door. God opens the door to reveal Gabriel – or Gabrielle, as she likes to be called since she started doing her Earth tour – as she mounts the front steps. She grins widely at both of them and scoops God up into a tight hug. Gabrielle is incredibly tall and wears high heels on top of that, so she has to duck her head to walk into the house.

 

When God takes human shape, He speaks normally. Lucifer pushes his sunglasses back up on his head. "Jesus and Metatron are in the back room," He says, His voice gentle and feminine. Gabrielle smiles, but Lucifer sees her get distracted by the giant cat on the stairs before she makes it to the back room. Gabrielle loves cats. She'll probably never make it to the room.

 

God walks out to the front porch of the house. Lucifer follows, and for a moment they stare out at the sprawling town, admiring the golden glow of the lights below.

 

Lucifer can hear, if he tilts his head and listens very carefully, the chorus of the Heavenly Host singing above them. They always sing louder when God is outside to hear them.

 

Finally, Lucifer sighs and turns to face God. "Well, I'm here. What is your will?" he asks.

 

God smiles at him. He reaches out, slender fingers cupping Lucifer's cheek, and turns his head so that his gaze goes back out to the town. "Look there," God says, pointing with His free hand to the town. Lucifer narrows his eyes, before they widen and he gasps.

 

He takes a step forward and God drops His hands, folding them across His stomach and tucking them in His dress. "Do you see him?" God asks.

 

Lucifer nods. He takes another step forward and his hand finds the white-painted post supporting the awning of the roof up from the ground. His fingers char the wood and he lets go with an apologetic huff. "What's wrong with him?"

 

God sighs. "I'm not…exactly sure. When I created the world, I wanted it to essentially continue on its own when and if I decided to leave. I suppose, statistically, this kind of thing could happen."

 

"But…I don't understand. What's  _wrong_ with him?" Lucifer asks, turning back to look at God.

 

"There are certain probabilities in the world, just like genetic makeup - combinations that are inevitable. It appears that he lacks the human ability to have true free will. The kind that determines where souls go

when they die."

 

Lucifer frowns. "So, what does that mean? He can't go to Heaven, he can't go to Hell?"

 

"You must understand, he  _has_ to get into Heaven," God replies.

 

Lucifer turns away to look back at the man. The man is not in the English town, he understands that. He is across the sea, in the Americas. He's older, in his early thirties. His beard is greying out and his hair is long enough to turn curly when it touches his neck. He's slender, almost to the point of being skinny.

 

"His soul looks wrong," he murmurs. "He's not going to have a good life."

 

"No," God replies.

 

"Then why are you telling me this? He needs Jesus. Or Mary."

 

God smiles and takes Lucifer's face in both hands, making Lucifer face Him. "Because I know you," He says with a kind smile. "You're the best to handle this kind of thing."

 

Lucifer bites his lip, pulling back. "I see."

 

"I want you to go down there. Show his soul the proper path. Souls can learn, just like humans can. That man  _has_ to get into Heaven."

 

Lucifer sighs, and looks to watch the man for a moment longer. He watches as the man stands, smiling widely, and kneels down just in time for a young boy to fling himself into the man's arms. The man stands, spinning him around, and sets him back down with another smile. Beyond him, the boy's mother watches on, her mouth in a thin line and her shoulders tense.

 

"What's his name?" Lucifer asks.

 

"Rick Grimes," God replies.

 

"If I do this, I want something in return."

 

God smiles. "Of course."

 

"I want to be taken off Hell duty. Make someone else do it. I've done my time."

 

"I can make that happen," God says. His eyes start to glow and He reaches out to gently trace the ichthys on Lucifer's forehead. It makes his skin itch, but God is a creature of habit and He'd grown rather fond of the fish symbol for His human son. "Peace be with you."

 

Lucifer sighs. "And with your Spirit." God smiles and turns to regard the town, humming along with the tune the Heavenly Host are singing, and Lucifer goes back into the house. He kneels down to pet the fat orange cat on the stairs, who regards him with hooded eyes and stretches out, purring loudly. Lucifer smiles and goes back into the room.

 

"I  _know_ you're not collecting tens, you giant pile of camel dung!"

 

Lucifer whistles, grinning. "Now, Mett. That wasn't very loving, was it?"

 

"Screw you," Metatron growls, and Lucifer laughs and takes his seat back.

 

"So, what did He want?" Jesus asks as Lucifer picks his hand back up, since apparently Gabrielle had managed to pry herself away from the cat but hadn't found her way to the game. The pile of tokens has grown substantially and Lucifer eyes his pile before throwing five in.

 

"There's a guy down there whose soul is all messed up. God wanted me to take a look," Lucifer replies, drawing another Queen.  He lays down the three Queens with a twenty-point wild card and sets them to one side. He runs a hand over his face and blows out a heavy breath.

 

"Oh," Jesus says after a moment of silence. Granted, his first and only visit to Earth had ended about as well as they had expected it to end, but he has always expressed an interest in returning there. Always 'N _ot yet'_ , from God.  _Not until they're ready._

 

"Yeah," Lucifer replies. "Probably gonna have to bow out of this game."

 

He throws down a set of six fours and another wild card, a single nine going on the discard pile, and stands, claiming the pot with another grin.

 

"See?" Metatron demands, throwing his cards down in disgust. "Cheating."

 

"You know, I could make this more interesting," Lucifer says as Metatron gathers the cards and starts to shuffle them again. Metatron raises an eyebrow but says nothing. "What if I told you my job is opening up soon?"

 

Metatron snorts. "King of Hell? No thanks."

 

Lucifer rolls his eyes. "It's not  _that_ bad. You're the one who always makes it seem worse than it is."

 

"For good reason."

 

Jesus makes an uncomfortable sound. "Can we not talk about this here?" he asks. He never recovered from this three-day stint in Hell after he'd died. Lucifer hadn't tortured him or anything, he isn't that kind of guy, but to say Jesus had been a little hungover upon his return topside would be like saying Moses parting the Red Sea was a cool party trick.

 

"I'm just saying," Lucifer says with a smile. "Might be an opening. Good gig. Lots of people to talk to. Writers, poets, philosophers, oh my!"

 

Metatron eyes him for a moment, before he starts to deal out the second round and mutters, "I'll think about it."

 

"Awesome," Lucifer says, then stands without looking at his cards. "I should get goin'. Gabrielle's in the house if you needed a third."

 

Jesus perks up, grinning at Metatron. His eyes are wide and he could give God's cat a run for his money with the doe-eyes. "C'mon, please? It'll be so much more fun with her," he says.

 

Metatron rolls his eyes. "As long as she keeps quiet about her band. Just screaming and shouting all the time, nonsense…"

 

"You shout," Lucifer says.

 

"I speak  _emphatically_."

 

"Great! So, does she. I'll go get her."

 

In this sleepy part of town, the only place open is a McDonald's on the side of the street, the golden arches beckoning those running away from home or with severe insomnia inside, to the scents of overcooked grease and enough salt to clog the arteries of a thousand men.

 

Lucifer loves it in places like this. He can see, behind the darkened frames of his sunglasses, the little flickers of yellow and blue fire that make up people's passions, their sins, their goodness. Red is anger, of course, but it can also be love. Yellow is at once fear and joy. Blue is sadness and contentment. When one has been in the game as long as he has, one can learn to read the differences, but the glasses help.

 

He enters the McDonald's and spies Rick Grimes immediately. The man is dressed in civilian clothes – jeans and a shirt, his jacket lying across the end of the table against the wall – and a rucksack sits on the booth bench next to him, between him and the wall. He has the remnants of a meal in front of him, half-eaten, the wrapper curled up around the last of the fries.

 

Lucifer stops and regards him. His soul is pure black.

 

Black is not inherently evil, despite what Christian propaganda would have people believe. Nor is white inherently good. Ask a physicist and an artist and they will argue whether black is everything and nothing all at once. When a baby is first born, their soul is a void. The fires of fear and greed and evil color them and paint them like bright patchwork.

 

This is, of course, for a practical reason. Hell is so dark, it would be impossible to see them unless they glowed with color.

 

But this Rick Grimes is utterly without sin. Lucifer frowns and takes his place in the line for food. The weather is colder now, too cold for the t-shirt and jeans he's sporting if he had remained outside, but in the building the air is warm and the grease slicks along his skin and he can feel his human body warming up.

 

He orders a coffee and, once he receives it, walks over and plops himself down in the booth opposite Rick Grimes.

 

Rick looks up at him and Lucifer raises his sunglasses so they sit on top of his head. Without the glasses on, Lucifer's sight doesn't change, but it's easier to see the human parts of Rick's face and eyes move and react than it would be otherwise.

 

Rick sets down the folder he had been examining. "Can I help you?" he asks, his voice calm for all intents and purposes, but Lucifer can see the tension in his jaw.

 

Lucifer nods to the folder. "New case?" he asks.

 

Rick cocks his head to one side. "Cold case," he says. "Can I help you?"

 

Lucifer looks down at the folder. There's a picture of a man, his skull caved in from what looks like a blunt weapon. Blood is sprayed in a thick arc around the body. There are more pictures paperclipped underneath it.

 

"I'm thinking we can help each other," Lucifer says, raising his eyes again.

Rick frowns. "Do I know you?"

 

Lucifer smiles. "No," he says.

 

"Who are you?"

 

"And here I was startin' to think you'd never ask. I'm the Devil, Officer Friendly."

 

Rick cocks his head to one side. He doesn't look surprised, or even disbelieving. Just confused, like this is a joke with a punchline he hasn't figured out yet. "The Devil doesn't exist."

 

"That's hurtful. I don't go around pretending you guys don't exist."

 

"Look, man. I don't have any cash on me, if you want change or anything I can't help you. I'm busy. Leave me alone."

 

Lucifer watches as Rick closes the file and slides it into his rucksack. He remains sitting and takes a drink of his coffee as Rick reaches into the bag, and freezes. When he pulls his hand back out, it's wrapped around a small silver box, large enough to fit a deck of cards like the one Metatron uses when he, Jesus, and Lucifer play.

 

Rick looks at him.

 

"Open it," Lucifer says with a nod. Rick opens it, revealing a photograph of a smiling man standing next to a baseball field, and Lucifer grins. "His name is Negan. He's your killer. He's been dormant for a while, moved to Virginia so the Atlanta cops never found him. But he's your guy." He cocks his head to one side. "Still too busy to talk to me?"

 

"Look," Rick mutters, shoving the box back into his bag and zipping it closed with a grunt. "I don't know you, and I don't know where you got this info, but you need to leave me alone before I arrest you for obstruction."

 

"What am I obstructing? I just helped you crack a case! Look -." Lucifer leans forward, putting a hand over Rick's and forcing the man to stop. "I'm here to help you out."

 

"I don't need help," Rick hisses, jerking his hands away. "Especially from a guy claiming to be the Goddamn Devil."

 

"Well, technically, I'm like…the seventh guy?" Lucifer says, shrugging after a moment. "We rotate."

 

"You're insane."

 

"Agree to disagree."

 

Rick regards him for another moment. His eyes, crystal blue and clear as a mountain lake, are dark with distrust. But it doesn't color his soul at all. What is  _wrong_ with him? "What do you want?" he asks again, through gritted teeth.

 

Lucifer smiles and leans forward. "Look, I'll tell it to you straight. You need to get into Heaven." Rick blinks at him, frowning. "I have a personal investment in making sure you get there. So, I'm here to help you out."

 

Rick blinks at him again, his frown melting into a smirk as he sighs and rolls his eyes. "Alright, I'll play along. How are you gonna do that?"

 

Lucifer eyes him for a moment, resisting the urge to slide his glasses back down. There's no fire on him at all, nothing to give away his emotions or thoughts to Lucifer. It's unsettling. Lucifer hasn't been unsettled in a long time. "Well, I'm gonna give you my luck. And my good buddy Metatron has the voice of God in him and I'll give that to you as well. No matter what you say, no matter what you do, you'll succeed."

 

"The fuck...? That doesn't sound like a good combination at all," Rick says, shaking his head.

 

Lucifer sighs and sits back. He takes his sunglasses off his head completely and shakes his hair out, reaching up to smooth one hand through the windswept strands. "Why don't you let the big boys handle the morality of it. You just…keep doing you." He grins again and folds his sunglasses so that they hang from the collar of his shirt, and grabs one of the discarded fries from in front of Rick.

 

He lifts his head when he hears the door open, and stands up. As the doors close he wills himself out of Rick's sight and out into the street. Rick visibly startles, looking around for him, and Lucifer draws the night around his shoulders to shield himself from sight.

 

 

 

 

 

"I've been thinking about your offer."

 

Lucifer leans his head back against the cold bench, tilting his gaze up until Metatron's untamable mop of curls comes into view. He grins and lifts his head to take a pull from his cigarette.

 

"Which offer would that be?" he asks, blowing out the thick cloud of smoke against Metatron's stomach.

 

Metatron glares at him, and walks around from the end of the bench to where Lucifer has his heels propped up on the far hand rest. He sits down, forcing Lucifer to curl his legs and straighten up with a grumble.

 

"You used to be more fun, you know," he complains, flicking the ash away before taking another inhale.

 

"I think I'm fun," Metatron replies.

 

"Everyone boring thinks they're fun," Lucifer says with a roll of his eyes. " _Intellectuals_."

 

Metatron stuffs his hands in his fleece jacket, shivering at the cold. His mustache twitches like he's trying to scratch his nose with his lower lip. They sit in silence, regarding the people passing by. It's the middle of the night on a weekday, so no self-respecting person is out and about. Although, Lucifer suspects that he's stolen a sleeping spot from one man curled up under a nearby tree.

 

"Do you remember your name?" Lucifer asks after a moment, throwing the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his shoe.

 

Metatron huffs. "My name?"

 

"Your real one. Your human one. Before you became…who you are."

 

Lucifer doesn't look at Metatron, but he can feel the man's eyes on the side of his face. He sighs and takes out another cigarette and conjures a small flame at the end of his finger, cheeks hollowing as he lights it and takes the first drag.

 

"It doesn't matter who we were," Metatron says. "Just who we are."

 

"But I won't be who I am if I do this thing. You will. Will you change your name? And who will I become?"

 

"Perhaps you should ask Him."

 

Lucifer snorts. "Yeah, you think you're gonna get a straight answer outta Him, be my guest," he replies. The wind brushes past them lightly, biting and chill, and Lucifer shivers and rubs his hands over his face. In front of them, a couple passes by, huddled together for warmth. Lucifer sees the green glow of pride in the woman's chest, the man's soul is blistered with yellow and blue. He sighs.

 

"Have you ever seen a black soul?" he asks.

 

Metatron looks at him. "You mean…like a new one?" he says, sounding uncertain.

 

Lucifer hums and sits forward, taking another pull from his cigarette and scratching over the beginnings of shadow on his cheek. "I guess. But it isn't new. This soul."

 

Metatron frowns. "I don't understand."

 

"I don't expect you to," Lucifer replies. His shifts his hold on his cigarette, pinching the rest of it between his thumb and forefinger instead of cradling it, and sucks the last of the stick down before he flicks it away, into the dewy grass. Then, he stands with another huff, dusting his hands down his thighs. "You wanna see it?"

 

Metatron looks up at him, still frowning, before he hums and stands as well. "Sure."

 

"You got your mic?"

 

"Of course."

 

"Good. We're probably gonna need it."

 

 

 

 

 

Rick Grimes is not the kind of person who likes to call attention to himself. Sure, he'll accept praise where it's due, as all humans are prone to the dogged pursuit of accolades and legacies, but overall, he's not the kind of person one would look twice at while passing on the street.

 

Lucifer grabs the darkness of nightfall and wraps it around his shoulders, shielding himself and Metatron from sight as they watch him walk down the road. Metatron lets out an audible gasp.

 

"Is that…?"

 

Lucifer presses his lips together. Rick is clearly agitated; his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are tense under his jacket. He walks quickly, purposefully. But there's no red in his soul, no flicker of yellow fire to mark himself as afraid. There's absolutely nothing, just the perfect matte black of his soul.

 

The idea behind a soul, Lucifer remembers his predecessor saying, is that they are like a void. Some voids are bigger than others, and are capable of holding more inside of them before they become full. The fires of sin stain the souls and soak into the void, but the void is there so that, when an if a soul goes to Heaven, it can be filled with God's light. The less sin there is on a soul, the more of the light it can absorb.

 

Rick Grimes does not have a void. His soul is like a mirror, absorbing nothing and reflecting everything. He lacks, as God said, the ability to have true free will, because he doesn't feel the consequences of his sins.

 

He is nothing.

 

"I don't like it," Metatron says. "I don't want him in Heaven."

 

"I'm afraid that's not your decision to make."

 

Rick stops on the side of the road, in front of an alleyway. His eyes skate along the ground and his head is cocked to one side, like he's listening to something. Lucifer tenses up – although they are unseen, they are at risk of being heard – and then Rick suddenly jerks his head up and darts into the alleyway. Lucifer hears a yelp of alarm and then the sound of someone getting the air punched out of them.

 

Lucifer and Metatron share a look, and creep closer. There is a single light illuminating the alleyway from a buzzing neon flytrap above the back door to a bar. Rick has a man against the wall by the door. The man's face is screwed up in pain and he's clutching at Rick's forearm where it's pressed up under his neck.

 

"Why are you following me?" Rick demands.

 

"I - I'm not -."

 

"Don't lie to me," Rick says, but lets go of the man and takes a step back. Lucifer's eyes narrow. The man's soul is absolutely _slick_ with yellow oil. The stench of his fear is like a physical feeling on Lucifer's face and hands. "You picked a really fuckin' shitty day to get on my bad side."

 

"I – I swear, S-Sir! I didn't -."

 

Lucifer turns his head as he hears the sound of laughter. It's high-pitched and feminine, and when he looks he can see three women drunkenly stumbling their way down the street. They're dressed for a party, laughing and losing their footing. One of them is carrying her heels and her bare feet scrape along the ground.

 

Rick looks back at the man, who is visibly shaking now. He looks terrified, two seconds away from pissing himself. Rick's jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed, and he cocks his head to one side.

 

"I see," he murmurs.

 

"I wasn't gonna do anything!" the man says, his hands up in a placating gesture.

 

Rick smiles. It's a slow, Cheshire-catlike smile. His teeth seem to shine in the light. "Well, why don't you and I stay right here and let the nice ladies pass?"

 

The man nods frantically, sweat shining on his forehead and upper lip. The women pass by in front of Lucifer and Metatron and turn the corner, disappearing from sight.

 

"Now." Rick slides close to the man and puts a hand on his cheek. It's an intimate, affectionate gesture, except for the wicked gleam in Rick's eyes. "There's thousands of videos on the internet full of women like that who'll be doin' shit a lot more willingly. I don't want to catch you on my streets again, you hear me?"

 

"Y-Yes Sir," the man says.

 

"Good, 'cause if I do…" Rick slides close, and whispers something Lucifer can't hear, but it makes the man pale and let out a low whimper. Rick steps back and pats his cheek. "Go," he says.

 

The man stumbles out of the alleyway, shaking, noises of fright escaping him. He almost goes to his knees as Rick steps out of the alleyway, eyebrow raised and head cocked to one side. The man scrambles to his feet and flees down the street in the opposite direction of the women.

 

Rick watches him go, before he stuffs his hands in his pockets and, head down, begins to go the way he had been.

 

"What _was_ that?" Lucifer whispers. Throughout it all, he hadn't see a flicker of red, or green disgust, or anything like that in Rick's soul. Rick's soul is just as flat and black as it always was, but Lucifer can taste the anger on him.

 

"This is beyond us," Metatron says. "We should consult the Seraphiel."

 

Lucifer nods. Loathe as he is to admit it, he might be in a little deeper than he'd thought.

 

 

The dwelling of the Seraphiel is a place at once containing the grandeur of the finest palace, and as sparse as an orphanage. The Seraphiel are a set of four angels that surround the throne of God when He sits upon it. Since God is in human form and currently residing in His house, the Seraphiel are not at their usual posts around His throne.

 

As far as Lucifer knows, these angels are the only ones that have been here since the dawn of time, and have never been given the option to be relieved of their positions. They don't rotate, they never leave their post when God is present.

 

North looks up as he approaches. Her wings, which are the same shade as frozen blocks of ice, white dotted with a deep blue, twitch and open in welcome. East is with her, and looks up as her sister falls silent. They regard Lucifer with large eyes darker than the void between stars.

 

"Peace be with you, Lucifer," North says.

 

"And with your Spirit," Lucifer replies with a respectful nod. "And with you, East."

 

East smiles at him. "What troubles you?"

 

Lucifer shrugs, somewhat sheepishly. "Can't I visit my favorite sisters?"

 

"Flattery, always flattery," North says with a kind smile. "But we know you better than that."

 

"I came to get some advice," Lucifer admits. "Or at least information."

 

"Speak," says East.

 

"God came to me, and told me there was a man on Earth who must get into Heaven. His soul is…it's weird. Nothing like I've ever seen before."

 

"Can you say you've seen much?" North teases, grinning to show her shining teeth.

 

"I've seen enough souls to know what to expect," Lucifer replies, shaking his head. "Nothing like this."

 

East cocks her head to one side, blinking her big, black eyes once, slowly. "Will you show me?" she asks, and holds out a hand. The Seraphiel, unlike most of the other angels sharing their name, are not built like the warrior Seraphs. They are slender, less substance to them than the brush of the wind.

 

Lucifer holds his hand out and East stands, touching two fingertips to his palm. Her eyes close, and then open again as she sees the image of Rick Grimes, sitting in the McDonald's as he had been when Lucifer first gazed upon him.

 

"Oh," East says. "Sister, come see."

 

North stands and touches Lucifer's palm as well. Her eyes widen.

 

"What… _is_ this thing?" she asks.

 

Lucifer shakes his head and lowers his arm. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."

 

"No sin in, no sin out," East murmurs. Her golden-sunrise wings flutter and the feathers start to bristle. "This is not a man."

 

"What, then?"

 

North reaches out and grabs her sister's arm. Her eyes are wide. "Cain," she whispers.

 

East blinks, and then presses her lips together and nods. "Cain," she repeats, and looks back to Lucifer. "You must find Samael. You must speak with him. He is the one who made these men."

 

"Samael? The _Devil_?" Lucifer repeats incredulously. "But no one's seen him in…."

 

"He is the one holding the contract," East says.

 

"Where can I find him?" Lucifer asks. "You must know where he is."

 

East smiles. "He is in Hell."

 

Lucifer blinks at her. "…No," he says weakly. "No. I would have sensed him."

 

North laughs, and shakes her head. "You think you've been at this for so long," she says. "You have no idea what true eternity feels like. You have no concept. That is the human in you, the man that still remembers. Let the memories fade, Lucifer."

 

Lucifer shakes his head, and grits his teeth. "Samael is in Hell," he says, and then brushes a hand over his face and looks away. He has made himself a very nice life avoiding the deeper pits of Hell. Lucifer had made it a top priority to promote enough middle management that he never has to be there himself. "Fuck."

 

North laughs again. "Peace, friend," she says. "For you, Hell is only temporary."

 

 

 

 

 

Lucifer lets out a frustrated breath as he slips on the road leading to God's house, almost losing his footing in the muddy, watery ground. The locals call England God's own country, and if they knew how right they were, they'd probably take it with pride and arrogance. Personally, Lucifer prefers Spain.

 

He grabs hold of one of the supporting posts around the porch and winces when his touch singes the wood again, leaving the shape of his fingerprints behind. "Sorry," he tells the house, which, predictably, doesn't answer.

 

He opens the door and is greeted by the fat orange cat. The cat meows at him and rubs along his legs, purring loudly. It was Death who suggested God get a cat. Death likes cats.

 

He kneels down and cups the cat's head, scratching over the cat's velvety-soft ears as it blinks slowly and starts to purr.

 

Then, he stands. "Anyone home?" he calls out, and hears a clinking from the study. He shrugs off his coat and takes off his shoes, and heads into the study. The fireplace is red and full of gentle flames as it always is. There are two large, comfortable reclining chairs in the study, and every wall is full to the brim with shining, old books that are upkept with meticulous care. The chairs are the color of new, wet grass, and they are occupied.

 

The cat follows Lucifer into the room, still purring loudly, and jumps up into one of the chairs. A hand comes into view and gently starts to pet the cat from head to tail. The hand is made of bone.

 

 _Hello, Light bringer_ , Death says.

 

"Hello, Death," Lucifer replies, stepping into the firelight. The cat turns its head to purr at him, tail swishing lazily. God is sitting in the other chair and smiles. Things like angels, and God, they don't fear Death. They have no concept of what mortality feels like, but Lucifer does. After all, he wasn't always what he is now. "God," he adds with a nod. The air feels cool whenever Death is around, but not refreshing. It is a prowling hunter, the silence right before a gunshot, and Lucifer's fingers twitch anxiously.

 

God smiles at him. He still appears as an older woman, gentle and motherly. "Lucifer, what brings you by?" He asks.

 

"I wanted to ask you about something," Lucifer says, and wonders why God bothers with formalities like this when He is the end and the beginning, and knows all, and sees all. Politeness shouldn't factor in. Maybe God likes humoring people. "About Rick Grimes."

 

"Ah, yes," God says. The cat rolls over in Death's lap, baring its stomach, purring loudly, and Death continues to scratch under its chin and pet over its belly. There's orange fur spreading out over Death's black robes.

 

"I visited North and East, and showed them what I'd seen. Metatron has seen him too. His soul is…" He shakes his head. "North said it had something to do with Cain, that I should ask Samael. I was…hoping I could avoid that."

 

God pauses, thinking for a moment. "Cain, is it?" He says, almost too quietly to hear. "So that's why…" God looks up and shakes His head, meeting Lucifer's gaze. "I am sorry, but I cannot help you. Cain is not under my domain."

 

"I don't understand," Lucifer replies, frowning. "Isn't _everything_ under your domain?"

 

 _Cain is not of this world,_ Death says, and turns so that Lucifer can see the widely grinning skull and the void in Death's eyes. Death's eyes remind him of Rick's soul and the unsettled feeling crawls up his spine again. _He is not human, and therefore not one of God's children._

 

"But you created everything. You created…him, didn't you?"

 

God sighs. "When the Great War happened, and I split the afterlife into Heaven and Hell, I gave Samael dominion over Hell to do with as he saw fit. That included…certain things." Lucifer frowns. It is the first time he has seen God so unsure. "If this Rick Grimes is one of Cain's brood, then it makes sense why I have only just started to feel his presence."

 

He looks back up and regards Lucifer. "Your task remains the same. If that man goes to Hell, there will be too much power within. He must get into Heaven."

 

"I don't understand any of this," Lucifer mutters, shaking his head, and looks to Death. "Why don't you just kill him and ferry him over here and call it done?"

 

Death grins at him. The cat rolls back onto its feet and jumps down from his lap, tail held high as it walks into the kitchen. Death stands and takes hold of his scythe. It is a fierce-looking weapon, the blade of it sharp enough to split anything with a single stroke, precise enough to wrench the color from a butterfly's wing.

 

 _That's not how it works, and you know it,_ Death says.

 

"But he…there's no void. There's no sin, and no goodness. If he died right now, where would he go?"

 

"I don't know," God replies.

 

"Bullshit," Lucifer hisses, gritting his teeth.

 

God stands and approaches Lucifer, cupping his face in His hands. "I know everything seems confusing, and scary right now," He says, gently stroking along Lucifer's cheeks. He smiles and pulls Lucifer down to rest their foreheads together. "You must have faith. Remember, this is as much as trial for you and it will be for Rick Grimes."

 

"Not what I signed up for," Lucifer says, but he should have known better than to make a deal with God. Lucifer isn't the best at this game, he isn't the original Devil. He doesn't know all the tricks, he wasn't raised as a child of God like Michael, Gabrielle, Samael, and Raphael were.

 

God smiles. "I have faith in you," He says. His love and kindness grace Lucifer, soaking through his skin. Then, God lets him go and walks out with Death, towards the kitchen where the cat had gone. Lucifer sighs, growling to himself, and leaves the house.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucifer, when he was still mortal and a human, remembers learning the story of Cain and Abel. He remembers learning that God favored Abel's sacrifices and Cain murdered Abel out of jealousy.

 

Of course, the God that Lucifer knows and serves doesn't seem like the kind of being to have favorites, but Cain and Abel had lived under the Genesis God, not the new and improved version people like to think about today.

 

He really, really doesn't want to go into Hell. The first two layers or so are bearable, since it's mostly a Purgatory-like plain where the righteous non-believers and the less heavy sinners end up. Mostly they just sit around and talk, and if they talk enough and loudly enough they can't hear the screams from those below.

 

But at the very bottom, past Wrath and Gluttony and Envy and everything else, is the last layer. The coldest, deepest, darkest pit that Hell could host. Past light, past sound, past warmth. There is no love there, no happiness, no memory. The farther down in Hell one goes, the more one is stripped of consciousness, of oneself, until all that remains is the basic shreds of knowledge and instinct that keeps a soul alive past the point of no return.

 

Lucifer doesn't want to go there. If Samael is anywhere, he will be there. Lucifer has only stared into that void once, when his predecessor showed him all of the parts of Hell over which he would preside. Sometimes he still has nightmares about it.

 

So, he doesn't go there. Maybe he doesn't need to. After all, God had said souls can learn. Maybe this soul just needs to learn how to accept the sin and righteousness that its human vessel takes on. Like a child learning to speak.

 

He touches down on Earth, dressed in his same preferred outfit of jeans, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. There's a certain air one must portray when they're the Devil, after all, and Lucifer has found that no one conjures up more random, uncentered animosity than a young twenty-something white man in casual clothes and wearing sunglasses at night.

 

He isn't in Atlanta anymore. He frowns, looking around, and sees a parking lot almost completely devoid of cars, a Wells Fargo on one side, a Silver Diner shining brightly on the other side of the lot. Across the street is a row of Old Town buildings, shops on the lowest levels and apartments stacked on top. There is a lot of people. It's a weekend.

 

He can smell anger.

 

He turns his head and sees a single car, lights off and idling in the far corner of the parking lot. He cocks his head to one side and lowers his sunglasses so that he can see the fires of sin flickering around the people as they walk past him. They're shivering, it's too cold to be wearing what he's wearing. He's cold.

 

There's a man in the car. His soul is black.

 

Rick Grimes.

 

Lucifer raises his glasses again and frowns, walking over to the car. The windows are rolled down and as he approaches he can make out the features of Rick's face. His eyes, still so bright and blue, are almost glowing in the bright glow coming off of the silver diner. The red and the yellow of the Wells Fargo make his skin look sickly. He's sweating, hands trembling and white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

 

His soul hasn't changed.

 

There's blood on his hands.

 

Lucifer stops by the driver-side door and Rick looks up, before his wide-eyed expression turns into a glare. "How did you…?"

 

"What part of 'I'm the Devil' do you not get?" Lucifer replies, reaching into his pocket for his packet of cigarettes. Rick continues to glare at him as he takes one out and puts the pack back, and then conjures another tiny flame from his fingertip to light it.

 

At the sight of the fire, Rick's eyes widen and he flinches back. "Holy shit," he mutters. Then he shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. The blood smears along his temples and through his hair like red gel. "This isn't real. The Devil doesn't exist."

 

"Fearing for your soul?" Lucifer asks. "Whose blood is that, Rick?"

 

"Fuck," Rick whispers. He shakes his head vehemently. He wraps his fingers around the back of his neck and twists them through his hair. " _Fuck_. I…"

 

Lucifer straightens up with a sigh. He looks around and throws his cigarette away, and then goes to the other side of Rick's car. It's unlocked. He climbs into the passenger seat and settles down with a low hum.

 

Rick eyes him. "Leave me alone," he says.

 

"Can't do that," Lucifer replies.

 

"Why not?"

 

"I told you. I have a personal investment in making sure you get into Heaven. Problem is, the way things stand, that doesn't look very likely. So congratulations, Pinocchio, you're stuck with me."

 

Rick looks at him for a long time, before he lets his hands drop and looks at them. They're trembling. "I found him," he says. "The guy you gave me. Negan."

 

Lucifer frowns, cocking his head to one side. "That his blood?"

 

Rick growls. "You gonna smite me?" he bites out.

 

"I don't have that power," Lucifer says. He takes another cigarette from the pack and lights it, and turns his head to blow the smoke out of the passenger-side window from his first drag. "I'm basically a glorified garbage man."

 

Rick shakes his head and lets out a sound like reminds Lucifer of a beaten dog. "I killed him," Rick confesses, putting his hands back on the wheel. "I don't know what happened. I just…I just saw red. I shouldn't have killed him. I should've arrested him, let him stand trial."

 

"You work fast," Lucifer says.

 

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Rick whispers, leaning forward to press his forehead against the backs of his hands. Lucifer regards him, and puts his sunglasses down just to be sure. No green, no yellow, no red. No guilt, fear, anger – but Lucifer can sense Rick's emotions, he can feel that he's having them. They're just not reflecting at all in his soul. Murder manifests as a giant scar on a soul, unable to be wiped away or diminish. Rick's soul is as flat and black as it always is.

 

"You smoke?" Lucifer asks, holding out the pack.

 

Rick shakes his head, before he presses his lips together and swallows, hard. "Fuck it, sure," he says, and grabs a cigarette from the pack. His fingers leave wet smears on the white stick. The kill was recent. Lucifer grins and snaps his fingers so that a flame flickers to life in his palm and Rick, after a moment of hesitation, leans in to let it light.

 

He takes a deep puff, coughing a little as it leaves him. "So, you're the Devil," he says.

 

"Yessir."

 

Rick shakes his head. "You made me do this," he says, taking another drag. His fingers are shaking. "You told me where he was, where to find him. You made me kill him."

 

"I didn't do shit. Just nudged you in the right direction. I'm good at that."

 

"Right." Rick huffs, holding his breath for a long time before letting it out. His eyes are on the people passing by them on the sidewalk, laughing and pushing each other. Friends, lovers, people who have just met. They're happy.

 

"I just told you his name. You did everything else. I can't fuck with that. Free will and all that jazz."

 

"Do I still have that?" Rick asks, bitterly.

 

"Honestly, I'm not sure you ever did," Lucifer replies, remembering God's words. "But I guess I can honestly say that nothing is different than what it was when you woke up this morning. You're still Rick Grimes. You're still _you_."

 

"This is insane," Rick whispers. "I don't even believe in God."

 

"If it's any consolation, this isn't personal."

 

Rick turns his head to look at Lucifer, his eyes raking Lucifer up and down. It's the same kind of look Lucifer imagines criminals receive before they're interrogated. Then, Rick sighs and shakes his head again. "Not much of a consolation," he mutters, and takes another inhale from the cigarette.

 

"Look, you can still live your life." Lucifer reaches out and touches Rick's arm, squeezing gently. "I want you to. Don't gotta be all sad about it."

 

Rick regards him, then his eyes drop to Lucifer's hand. Lucifer pulls it away. "Why is this happening to me?" he demands.

 

Lucifer cocks his head to one side, and looks away. He takes a drag from his cigarette and breathes out against the windshield, watching the smoke momentarily blur his view of the rest of the world. "Do you really wanna know?"

 

"Would it help?" Rick asks.

 

"In my personal experience, knowing more about a bad thing doesn't make it any easier to deal with."

 

"I guess you would know," Rick says with another sigh.

 

Lucifer props his elbow up on the side of the door, knotting his fingers in the mess of hair falling into his forehead. He slouches down and puts his feet up against the air vents in the dashboard, ignoring Rick's complaining huff. "It's all about balance," he starts, blowing out another cloud of smoke. He itches the side of his nose with his thumb and then drags it across his lower lip. His eyes are on a group of people coming out of the Silver Diner, laughing and shoving each other. They're a young group, their souls are relatively clean. "Some people have to go one way, others go the other way. You might be the first person I've met who doesn't want to get into Heaven."

 

"I don't believe in Heaven," Rick says.

 

Lucifer smiles. "That's probably why, then. What _do_ you believe?"

 

"Just…" Rick shakes his head. "Just…that's it. You live, you die. Boom. End scene."

 

"That doesn't sound very comforting," Lucifer says with a playful smile. "That what you tell your boy?"

 

"Better than Hellfire and brimstone."

 

"You've got a point there." Lucifer eyes him again. "So, it doesn't give you any comfort to know that Negan is probably six layers deep right now, getting his flesh peeled off his bones and tortured in all the best ways Hell has to offer?"

 

Rick shudders. "Not really," he says.

 

Lucifer huffs and takes another puff from the cigarette, before he flicks the butt out of the car and away. The group are getting closer.

 

"Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to play whatever crazy, sick game this is."

 

"No can do," Lucifer says. "Sorry."

 

Rick growls, and reaches forward to turn off the car. "Fine," he says, through gritted teeth. "Fuck you, then. I'm leaving." He gets out of the car and Lucifer doesn't follow. He watches Rick get out, the blood on his hands shining in the lights, and stalk towards the group.

 

Lucifer sighs and puts his sunglasses over his eyes. "Hey, Metatron," he calls, turning his head when the angel materializes outside the car. "Get your mic ready."

 

The group has formed into two men and two women. They're dressed nicely, the women in pretty dresses and the men in dark jeans and polo shirts. They look like the kind of group who go out after seeing a show or movie.

 

Rick comes to a stop, it looks like they're heading his direction, towards the parking lot. He turns and looks back at Lucifer and presses his lips together. It looks like he's trying to make a decision. Lucifer gets out of the car and stands there as Rick nods to himself and turns back towards the group.

 

"Hey!" he calls, and the four come to a stop. "Yeah, you!"

 

The larger of the two men steps to the front of his group, the other guy on his right while the women pair up behind them, on the defensive. They can see the blood. Lucifer sees their souls tint yellow and red in wary fear.

 

"Can I help you?" the bigger man says.

 

"What's your name?" Rick demands.

 

"Spencer," the man replies, straightening up and lifting his chin.

 

Lucifer's attention is caught as Metatron raises a microphone to his mouth. It's golden, and on the side, there is a name in glowing green letters. _Rick Grimes_.

 

"You blessed children of the Lord!" Metatron says into the microphone, and when Rick talks again, it's his voice, but he's saying the words Metatron is speaking. "I can see that your hearts are pure and Righteous and Good in the eyes of our Heavenly Father. Blessed be the people who live under the care of our Savior!"

 

Lucifer grimaces and looks at Metatron. "Who _talks_ like that?" he demands. "Are you serious? I wouldn’t have asked for your help if that's the best you can come up with."

 

The group of four look at each other, apparently just as confused as Rick is. Rick looks down at his hands and then shoots a glare in Lucifer's direction. Lucifer shrugs and shakes his head. The group don't appear to acknowledge the exchange.

 

"Look, man," Spencer says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Why don't we just go our way and you go yours and we don't have to take up any more of each other's time, okay?"

 

"Is – is that blood?" one of the woman asks, tugging on the other man's arm. "Nick, is that blood?"

 

Metatron huffs and raises the microphone again and Rick's voice echoes through the parking lot, like he's shouting. Fighting against the words Metatron is putting in his mouth. "I warn you now to turn back, for the den of iniquity you travel towards this night is doomed to be purged!"

 

"Okay, stop it," Lucifer says, grabbing for the microphone, but Metatron holds it away and glares at him. "You're messing with their free will. You can't _do that_."

 

"Alright," Spencer says, looking to his companions and then back to Rick. "Alright, man, why don't we just calm down and we can both leave and call it a night? Deal?"

 

Rick lets out a low, aggravated noise. His fists clench, and then he walks up and punches Spencer square in the jaw. The man drops immediately and the girl standing behind him lets out a shriek. Nick jumps in and lands a punch to Rick's side and Rick grabs him, kicking at his knee with an audible snap and Nick cries out as Rick gets him into a headlock.

 

Metatron sighs, turning the microphone off so Rick's name fades away, and slides it into his pocket. "Can I go now? I had a winning hand."

 

Lucifer sighs. "Yeah, I think I proved my point here."

 

Metatron nods and disappears between the flickering lights of police sirens, as a cop car lets out a little wail of its siren and pulls up outside of the Silver Diner, next to the fight. A policeman scrambles out and runs over to them.

 

"Hey, hey!" he yells, and Rick immediately lets go of Nick and steps away, holding his hands up. There's blood on Rick's lip and Nick has the start of a bruise forming on his jaw and Rick winces when he straightens up, clutching his side.

 

"He just came at us and started talkin' crazy," one of the women says, pointing to Rick as the officer approaches. Rick flinches when a flashlight is shone in his eyes. Nick goes over to Spencer, who is starting to stir, and helps him to his feet.

 

"He do that?" the officer asks, nodding to Spencer as Spencer clutches his jaw and groans in pain.

 

Nick nods. "Just came outta nowhere. Dude's fuckin' crazy."

 

"The fuck's wrong with you, man?" Spencer demands, glaring up at Rick.

 

Rick shakes his head and takes another step back. The flashlight sweeps down him, held in the officer's hand, and he sees the blood on Rick's face and hands.

 

"Alright, sir, what else have you been up to tonight?"

 

Rick shakes his head and looks over his shoulder, towards Lucifer. "I had to," he says.

 

"He's crazy, officer! Arrest him! He just came up to us and started a fight for no reason."

 

"I had to," Rick says again.

 

Before anyone else can speak, a crackle of static comes on over the policeman's radio. "All units respond. Incident involving fire. Medic, respond. Engine 441, respond. Fire on Harrison and Main. Moko Lounge. Coordinate with fire response before entering premises. Response channel 4-Bravo. Multiple Unit Dispatch. Several injured. Status unknown."

 

Spencer's eyes widen and he straightens, his eyes on Rick. "Shit," he whispers, and looks to his companions. "We were just heading there."

 

Rick presses his lips together and shakes his head. He takes a step back and Lucifer walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He draws the night around them both, hiding them from sight, and gently exerts his will over Spencer, his group, and the officer, to encourage them to make their statements and forget about the blood on Rick's hands, and Rick's physical description. It might be a technical violation of the free will law, but Lucifer is starting to think that Rick might be beyond something like that.

 

"You made me save them," Rick says.

 

"No," Lucifer replies. "You're the one who tried to start a fight to prove something."

 

"I feel like something came over me again," Rick whispers. "Like I'm not in control." He pauses, and then looked to Lucifer, angry again. "You changed my voice, made me say other stuff."

 

"That was Metatron," Lucifer replies with a smile. "I told you I would give you his voice."

 

"I don't _want_ it!" Rick hisses, pushing away from him and stalking back towards the car. Lucifer follows, both of them shielded from sight. "I don't want his voice and I don't want your luck and I don't want anything to do with Heaven, Hell, or fuckin' _God_!"

 

"Rick, listen to me," Lucifer says, reaching out and spinning Rick around. He plants both hands onto Rick's shoulders and Rick goes still. It looks like he's gearing up for a punch.

 

"Get your hands off me," Rick growls, and Lucifer lets him go, hands raised in a placating gesture.

 

"Look, I know this is all going to sound crazy. I know you're afraid." Although he can't see the stain of fear in Rick's soul, he can sense it well enough. He wishes he understood what, exactly, Cain and Samael had to go with all of this. It's starting to look more and more like he might need to pay Hell a visit. "I'm going to try and find out a way to help you, a way to get you on the path you need to be, so that you and I don't have to see each other ever again."

 

"Oh yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?"

 

"I'll…" Lucifer hesitated, and shakes his head. "I'll visit the Devil."

 

"I thought you were the Devil."

 

"I mean the _original_ one," Lucifer explains. "I told you, I'm not the first. I'm…I think it's the seventh. Or eighth. There's a grey area during the Middle Ages."

 

"This is fuckin' crazy," Rick growls. "I'm going home."

 

"I won't stop you."

 

"I should be arrested, locked away. I killed a man."

 

"A man who killed dozens. I think it evens out in the grand scheme of things."

 

"I'm going home," Rick says. "If I see your face again, I'll shoot you." He turns away and gets into his car, twisting the keys in the ignition with savage intent. Lucifer shakes his head and sighs. He looks back towards the Silver Diner and sees that the policeman has finished taking the group's statements. He releases the night veil around Rick and lets him drive away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the fucked up formatting!

The only open gate into Hell is located in the middle of one of the Kerguelan Islands. They are also known as "The Desolation Islands", because the only inhabitants there are a small year-round population of French scientists and engineers. There is no airstrip on them, and to get there requires a six-day boat ride from Reunion, off the coast of Madagascar.

 

Lucifer chose this place to put the only open gate by design. It is very cold year-round, discouraging demons and other unholy things from cresting the surface, and being surrounded by saltwater makes it almost impossible for Hellions to cross over. It is one of the most tightly monitored borders in all of existence.

 

Lucifer wills himself into existence in front of the largest volcanic deposit on the island and starts to climb it. He can feel the energy of the lava fissures underneath the rock, and his shoes steam whenever he puts his foot down. He climbs to the very top, the wind whipping at his face and his exposed arms.

 

At the top of the mountain there is a crevice, almost undetectable to the naked eye. To get out, demons and Hellions need to claw and fight their way through it, but as King of Hell, he has the power to enter and exit of his own volition.

 

His fingers twitch and he sighs, and steps into the crevice, slipping from the Earthly plane and into Hell in a single step.

 

Darkness engulfs him and he falls, a drop of almost thirty feet. He lands on his hands and knees, gasping at the change in air pressure. Being in the first layer of Hell feels like a perpetual freefall, designed to strip a soul of their humanity so that when they reach the bottom, their soul shines with their sins and they can be properly assigned to the layer of Hell they are destined for.

 

A great rumble breaks the silence and the darkness, and three sets of glowing eyes open and appear. Lucifer stands as the eyes gain mouths, ragged teeth shining as though lit from behind.

 

One of the sets of eyes glows green, symbolizing Earth. A second set is red, for Hell. The third is blue, for Heaven. The light from the crevice shines down on the beast as it steps forward – a giant three-headed dog that guards the gates.

 

Lucifer smiles and reaches out a hand as the green head arches forward, and puts its muzzle into his hand. "Hello, Kerebos," he greets, and the giant dog huffs against his hand. The Hell head nuzzles his shoulder and the Heaven head lays flat on the ground and lets out a quiet whine, as though begging for treats.

 

Lucifer remembers the first time he had set eyes on Kerebos - or Cerberus, as the Anglicized language likes to call him. The dog has always been friendly to him, despite his formidable appearance. Lucifer pets over the Earth head and scratches behind his ears until the dog huffs, panting and letting out a quiet bark of greeting.

 

With Cerberus' permission, the door behind him opens, revealing the flickering Hellfire beyond. Lucifer smiles and steps underneath the giant dog, avoiding his rapidly wagging tail, and enters Hell.

 

The doors close behind him. The first layer of Hell is largely unimposing. It is, after all, for the righteous nonbelievers, and resembles Earth the most closely. It is a barren field for the most part, where people live in simpler times. There is no technology, no industry. They live as Adam and Eve once did, with all their simplest needs provided for.

 

Lucifer passes through, nodding in greeting to the humans he sees. They don't know him for what he is, they have never seen the form given to him once he took up the mantle of Devil. When he goes deeper, he will have to shed his human skin, but for now he can walk amongst them as a foreign friend.

 

He passes through the field and to the other side, where there is a second door. The door is silver and arches up with great oak trees on either side, etched with a depiction of the forbidden fruit being eaten by Adam and Eve. A large serpent is coiled around the door and as Lucifer approaches, it shifts and lifts its head, blinking open one red eye that shines like a pristinely-cut ruby.

 

The serpent regards him for a long moment, tongue made of gold flicking out to taste the air. It is the serpent's job to mind the cattle here, to keep them from straying deeper, and to devour anything that tries to pass through from below without permission. Lucifer meets its eye. After a moment, the large silver coils of its body flex and move aside and the doors open.

 

In the second circle of Hell dwell the lustful, those too passionate to remain on the rightful path to God. It takes the form of a howling, constant wind, buffeting lost souls back and forth in an unending chorus of wails and moans, never allowing rest. The wind bites at Lucifer as he passes through and the doors close behind him.

 

He bows his head and fights the winds, towards the door to the third level. Through the slush and icy rain of Gluttony, the wailing need of Greed, the brackish battleground of Wrath. In Wrath, there is a constant war, people fighting against hordes of demons and undead. Those here can never die, but suffer forever from their wounds in a constant fight. He tries not to think of Rick, knowing that this is where he would likely go if he were to die before Lucifer could save him.

 

The sixth circle is the one he despises the most. Heretics go here, and are trapped in coffins made of flames that never go out. No matter how their bodies burn, or how their flesh melts from their bones and their organs blister and decay, they may never die. Their screams pierce him and Lucifer covers his ears, gritting his teeth as he tries to avoid their grasping hands and clawing nails.

 

He passes through Sloth, through Envy, and through Pride. He lowers his sunglasses to his head and tries not to notice how brightly all the souls shine there.

 

Finally, he reaches the last circle. The circle beyond all else, where only the truly unredeemable may go. This is where Samael must be, if he is anywhere, beyond all hope of seeing God's light, beyond all hope of escape. Beyond Death and beyond vengeance. This is a place for people who sin beyond reproach, who do not just ignore God's word, but actively fight against it.

 

The door to the last circle is a slate of pure black, a void of darkness so deep even God's love could not penetrate it. It opens to his touch and he steps inside. This layer takes the shape of a cave, with a large frozen lake in the middle of it. Those that go here are trapped below the layer of ice, their screams and their pleas silenced by the thick ice.

 

As he approaches the lake, he sees a single drop of gold drip from the apex of the cave. It looks like the tokens that he, Jesus, and Metatron gamble with. As it drops to the lake, it sinks through the surface and takes the shape of a man.

 

Lucifer recognizes Negan.

 

Within the center of the lake is an island. There is a single, shack-like building built upon it, looking from the outside like it is two steps away from falling completely apart. Light shines from within it, and, lips pressed together, Lucifer walks across the frozen lake and towards the shack.

 

He raises his hand, fingers curling for a moment, before he raps his knuckles against the door. It opens at his touch and Lucifer winces, glad that he's wearing his glasses so that he is not blinded by the glow of the original Light Bringer.

 

Samael is inside. He takes the form of a beautiful man, with long golden hair and eyes the color of red dawn. His wings, scorched and bruised through they are, shine as though lit with the power of a thousand suns. There are six of them, splayed out in all directions. Lucifer steps into the shack and the door closes behind him.

 

Samael regards him, head cocked to one side. He wears no clothes, one of his wings laid across his stomach and lap as though to shield him from the cold, although Lucifer knows he doesn't feel such things. He smiles as Lucifer approaches and opens his arms in a gesture of welcome.

 

"Welcome, brother," he says.

 

"Samael," Lucifer replies, going to one knee and bowing his head in a gesture of respect. Samael is, after all, the original Devil, and evokes the same awe and power as standing before God. Lucifer has never met Michael, but he imagines it would be the same. Samael does not deign to dampen his power in a human vessel.

 

Samael stands and his wings fold at his back. He takes Lucifer's chin and raises his gaze, then allows him to stand.

 

"You're the first of my replacements to visit me," Samael says.

 

"I don't want to disturb you," Lucifer replies, biting his lower lip. Samael's presence reminds him of his own mortality – how, despite his powers and his dominion passed down from his predecessor, Samael is the beginning of it all. He is the Morningstar, the one who may summon Death, and War, and Pestilence, and Famine to his side when the time comes to end the world and bring it about anew. Only then, Lucifer knows, will Samael return to Heaven, when God's Kingdom comes to Earth.

 

"You're not disturbing me," Samael says. "What brings you here?"

 

"I came for help," Lucifer replies. "God has given me a task."

 

"Yes, He's fond of those," Samael says with a smirk. His eyes do not blink. They stare deeper than skin, than sin, than anything a human might be able to conjure to keep him out. Lucifer could reign in Hell for a thousand years and not have anything close to his power.

 

"There's a man," Lucifer says, "who must get into Heaven. But I don't…his soul is wrong. I've never seen anything like it. The Seraphiel told me that it's something to do with Cain."

 

Samael cocks his head to one side, before he starts to laugh. It's like the sound of windchimes, but sends a shiver of fear through Lucifer's being. "Of course," he says, and turns away. The glow of his wings burns Lucifer's eyes and he lowers his gaze. "My first disciple."

 

"I don't understand," Lucifer says. "Can you help me?"

 

"I could," Samael murmurs, before he turns back to regard Lucifer. "You know the story of Cain?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And the story of Judas?"

 

Lucifer blinks, frowning. "Yes."

 

"Take off the glasses. Let me see your eyes."

 

Lucifer winces, but obeys. There is no choice but to obey Samael. He lowers his gaze and lets his hair fall forward, before he takes the glasses off and hooks them into the front of his shirt.

 

Samael takes his chin again, forcing him to raise his eyes. Lucifer can barely gaze upon him, it's like looking directly at the sun. His eyes start to hurt but Samael doesn't let his chin go, so he can't turn away.

 

"Your eyes are pretty," Samael says after a moment. "Is this what you looked like as a human?"

 

"I don't know any other way to look," Lucifer replies.

 

Samael laughs and finally lets his chin go. Lucifer ducks his gaze and puts his glasses back on, breathing a sigh of relief when his eyes no longer hurt from gazing at the pure, golden light of Samael's form. "Come with me," Samael says after a moment, and heads for the door to the shack. Lucifer follows as though on a leash. When they're outside, Samael's light illuminates the entire cave, revealing beautiful diamonds and sapphires laid into the stone. It reminds Lucifer of the room in God's house.

 

The surface of the lake turns to pure white, so that Lucifer cannot see the souls trapped beneath it. Samael steps out, his bare feet blistering the surface of the ice and making it crack, melting away under his heat. He turns and offers his hand to Lucifer, who takes it and allows Samael to pull him onto the lake.

 

Samael embraces him with his wings and smiles, cupping Lucifer's face. "God told you to save this man," he says. "Because He cannot do it Himself. Do you understand what a son of Cain is?"

 

"No," Lucifer replies. It's hard to breathe in the circle of Samael's wings, like the air and the light and everything that humans needs to survive has been cut away. It feels like dying – a sensation Lucifer hasn't felt since he left the mortal coil.

 

He gasps and clutches at Samael's hands. Samael smiles and rests their foreheads together. It feels like a burn.

 

"You remind me of him," Samael says. "Of Cain. Do you remember your human name?"

 

"No," Lucifer replies.

 

Samael smiles. "I know your name," he says. "I think it's time you surrendered your title."

 

"What?" Lucifer asks, unable to think past the burning in his head. It feels like he's trying to claw at a neutron star, blistering his skin and soaking ash into his lungs. He thinks of the people trapped in burning coffins and shivers with fear.

 

Samael smiles. Lucifer can feel the ice breaking apart, bringing them to unsteady ground. Samael will not fall, but he can. As soon as Samael lets him go, he'll sink below the surface. His heart is flying, his breathing unsteady.

 

"A new King has been born."

 

"Release me," Lucifer demands.

 

"As you wish."

 

Samael steps back and lets him go. Lucifer feels the ice on which he's standing slip and break apart. His hands are glowing gold, his soul shining as his flesh starts to melt away. He gasps and scrambles desperately at the ice as he falls to his knees, trying to keep his balance.

 

He looks up at Samael and Samael laughs, crouching down, and takes his glasses away. Lucifer cries out in pain as Samael's wings flash brightly, and covers his eyes, looking down.

 

The souls trapped beneath are under the ice, clawing at the surface with gnashing teeth and frantic screams. He pushes himself to his feet and runs towards the edge of the lake. Hands reach out, clawing at his feet and his legs. He feels his skin puncture, feels himself start to bleed. He sinks below the surface of the ice with another scream.

 

Negan is there, grinning widely at him, and reaches for him with an open mouth. Lucifer kicks him away and frantically claws his way to the surface. He scrambles at the ice and feels it start to reform and freeze around his neck, but he forces an arm through, and then another. The ice coils tightly like a giant serpent around his chest and he kicks frantically, shrieking as his legs and stomach are clawed and gnawed at by the souls below.

 

Samael laughs, the sound echoing around him and digging nails into his head. He's freezing, soaked in the icy water, and braces his hands against the surface of the ice, hauling his broken body out and onto the edge of the lake.

 

He rolls onto his back to see Samael walking towards him. "Everyone has to die," he says. "Even you."

 

"I don’t understand," Lucifer says, but his head hurts, it feels like he's fracturing apart, split in two just like the ice as Samael reaches for him. He scrambles back but his feet can't hold his weight anymore. His back hits the door.

 

"I've waited a long time for Cain's chosen to come," Samael says. "And now you tell me he's here, walking the Earth."

 

"What does this mean? Why are you doing this?"

 

Samael comes to a stop on the edge of the lake. The ice is receding, allowing the hordes trapped beneath to claw their way out from under it. Lucifer trembles with fear, it feels like his blood is turning to ice, drawing him back down to the lake. The water is turning red from his wounds.

 

A loud snap breaks the silence of the lake, and Samael turns as the shack starts to collapse in on itself, swallowed by a darkness so deep that Lucifer knows nothing would be able to penetrate it. It takes the shape of a man, eight feet tall with glowing white eyes. It's a mirror, another flat surface just like Rick's soul is.

 

Samael smiles. "My love," he says, and reaches out towards the shadow. "It's time."

 

Lucifer shakes his head and turns, pushing against the door. He breaks out just as the legions trapped beneath the ice water start to stand, freed at last, and slams it behind him with a grunt, pained and broken as his body is.

 

He lays against the door, breathing heavily. His heart is hammering and his hands are shaking.

 

He can hear Samael laughing.

 

"God help me," Lucifer whispers, and struggles to his feet. He's badly wounded, his legs shaking as they try to hold him up. He has to use the door for leverage, but he manages to stand. His glasses are gone, lost to Samael, and he winces as the darkness of the eighth circle envelopes him. He can't see, can barely move.

 

Then, a bright light starts to take over the door. From the center, spreading out like a giant spiderweb. The door starts to tremble and break apart and Lucifer falls back, and turns and runs as fast as he can.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucifer falls to his knees in front of God's house. Where his blood touches the ground, it chars the grass and makes it shrivel up and turn black. He crawls up onto the stoop, gasping heavily, his hands burning the wood and leaving black handprints behind on the dark brown paint.

 

The door opens and Death stands in the entryway. At his feet, the big orange cat sits, purring and rubbing its head against Death's robes.

 

"Am I going to die?" Lucifer asks. He feels as weak and lost as an abandoned kitten. His shoulders ache like a great weight is sitting on them. None of those with his title after Samael had wings, but Lucifer feels like he does, and they're being stripped from him feather by feather. His body twitches as though still able to feel the claws and gnawing teeth of the souls trapped under the lake of ice. There are bite marks on his arms.

 

 _Not today_ , Death replies, and steps to one side and offers his hand with a grin. Lucifer sucks in a breath and puts his hand on Death's arm, allowing Death to pull him to his feet. God's Grace and love are starting to touch him like the gentle brush of an oceanside wind. It doesn't heal, but soothes, and Lucifer finally feels his heart starting to calm.

 

"Is He here?" Lucifer asks.

 

 _Yes_ , Death replies. _In the library._

"Will you help me there? I can barely stand."

 

 _Yes,_ Death says, and hooks his hand under Lucifer's arm to hold him steady as they make their way inside and into the same familiar room, with the gleaming books and the warm, welcoming fire. God is in His favorite chair and looks up as Death walks Lucifer in and deposits him on the other chair.

 

God's eyes widen. "What happened?" He asks.

 

Lucifer swallows back his instinctive retort, knowing that, technically, he was in a place where God's eye doesn't see. "I visited Samael," he says.

 

"Oh," God whispers, shaking His head. "You shouldn't have done that."

 

"Yeah, hindsight's a great thing. You know what would have also been awesome? _Warning_."

 

"What, should I have warned you not to trust the original Devil? You should know better, Lucifer."

 

Lucifer winces. When God says his name like that, it hurts, like his body is rejecting the name. "Samael said I should give up my title," he says. "He said that since…Cain's chosen, is walking the Earth again, it's time for – I saw the lake of ice crack, and shatter, and all trapped below it rise up. I think Samael intends to visit Earth."

 

Death looms into sight at the entryway and God sighs, turning to regard him. "I suppose it's time, then," He says. Death nods, once, and lets out a sigh like the slide of a stone slab over a tomb.

 

Lucifer sits up, eyes widening. "Time for what? What's going on?" he demands. "Why can't I ever get a straight fuckin' _answer_ outta you?"

 

He freezes, panic swelling up in his chest. His voice sounded different, like Rick's did when Metatron controlled him. He puts a hand to his temple and winces, it feels like someone is physically trying to separate his face from his skull, like he's being split apart.

 

God stands. "It's time."

 

"What's happening to me?" Lucifer asks, shaking his head vehemently. He clutches both hands to the side of his head, digging his nails into his temples and dragging them down. His vessel feels too _small_ , like his brain is swelling and cracking his jaw and skull apart.

 

"Go," God says to Death. "Summon War and Famine and Pestilence and begin your task." Death nods and disappears in a sweep of robes. Lucifer hears the whinny of his pale horse from outside, can see Death riding away behind the flicker of the single candle in the window.

 

Lucifer groans, rolling onto his side. He coughs, spitting out black tar from his lungs to drip into a thickly spreading puddle on the floor in front of the fire. The heat of it stings his freezing-cold skin, he's trembling like he's getting pneumonia.

 

"What's happening to me?" he demands, gasping. Thousands of years of smoking has caught up with him. His stomach feels shriveled and dead from hunger, his body aches from years of mistreatment and clawing his way in and out of the Earthly plane. Bodies aren't meant to travel between realms like souls can, and only the powerful and the twisted can do it without any consequences like he has. He feels weak, tortured, _human_ , and fear is running down his arms like he's soaked in it and he doesn't understand what's going _on_.

 

God kneels in front of him and cups his face. His lungs stop coughing and shuddering, they feel cleaner now, though not perfect. How he was when he first took up the mantle of Lucifer. His stomach stops sending sharp shards of pain through his abdomen. His clothes change into the clothing he was wearing when he died.

 

God smiles and kisses his forehead. "I have faith in you," He says quietly. "It is the end of the world. The Reckoning. The Apocalypse."

 

"What does that mean?" Lucifer demands – but he's not Lucifer, not anymore. He's been stripped of his abilities, his power, his title. He feels hunger, and thirst, and pain. He's closer to human that he's been for years.

 

God stands and lets go of Lucifer's face. "Go now," He says, his voice thundering and powerful. Lucifer shrinks up in the chair with a shiver of fear. This is the God of Genesis, who flooded the Earth and split the Heavens and tore the fires of Hell apart to make way for never-ending darkness.

 

Lucifer gasps as the chair starts to sink, and lets out of a cry of alarm before he realizes he isn't being dragged down to Hell. Darkness closes around him like when he uses the night to shield himself from the sight of mortals.

 

It digs into his shoulders and the plucking sensation he had been feeling turns into an all-out rip. His back is shredded and he shrieks in pain but no noise comes out. His eyes burn, leeching color until they're a pale white, before they fill back in with the blue his mortal vessel had been born with. His hair grows dull and longer, a darker brown than the color Hellfire had bleached it to. The wounds in his legs heal but they still ache when he comes crashing down through the darkness. A road rises up to meet him, the concrete beckoning him down like a long-lost friend.

 

He braces his arms in front of his face, grits his teeth, and prepares to land.

 

 

 

 

 

He slams down onto the windshield of a car in the middle of a highway surrounded by forests. The car veers wildly, airbags deployed, and goes careening off the road and into the verge, coming to an abrupt stop in a ditch. The force of it flings him away from the car and into a tree with a solid _thunk_.

 

He groans, sliding down to the ground. His head is pounding, there's blood running down the side of his face in thick rivulets and he turns his head and spits out a wad of bloody saliva onto the ground. Nothing _feels_ broken, which is impossible because he literally fell from the sky so something should definitely be broken, but he can move his hands and his feet when he pushes himself upright. Everything hurts, but it's manageable.

 

He struggles to his feet and out of the ditch, eyes on the car. There's a man inside, face buried in the airbag. He walks over and opens the door to a groan of busted metal and the sprinkle of glass falling to the ground. He grabs the man's shoulder and hauls him back. Blood spurts from a piece of glass that hit his neck, another lodged in his forehead and piercing his brain. His eyes are wide and staring at the ceiling.

 

"Sorry son of a bitch," he mutters, and lets the man fall again. He climbs up onto the road, squinting one way, then the other. He gingerly touches his hand to his bleeding temple and hisses when he finds it's not healing like it should be. " _Shit_."

 

Flashes of something like memory, something like a fever dream, cross his vision. He looks back to the car and thinks he might recognize it. It's an older model, late nineties at most, the color of dull gold. His blood is smeared across the windshield, the thing is collapsed in on itself and smoking in the ditch.

 

The air gets cold and Daryl turns his head to one side to see Death standing in the middle of the road. He looks down at his hands. He's wearing gloves. Leather ones, to protect his hands from the wind when he's riding his motorcycle.

 

His arms are bare and scraped raw from road burn. His hair tickles his sweaty neck. His dark jeans are ripped in places from being thrown from the bike and into the tree.

 

He looks over at Death. _Hello, old friend,_ Death says, waving one hand in greeting.

 

"This…" His voice sounds strange, rougher than he's used to it sounding. The Devil has a silver tongue and golden teeth, can charm the poison from a snake and the honey from a beehive. Daryl has none of those gifts. He takes one step towards Death before his legs give out and he collapses to his knees. "What happened?"

 

_The mantle of Lucifer has been shifted._

" _Why_?" Daryl demands, the force of sucking in the cold air making his lungs cough and stutter. He covers his mouth with both bloody hands and coughs into them, wet and racking his entire body. "Ah, shit. Why aren't I dead?"

 

Death chuckles, and Daryl looks up. "Am I dead?" he asks, unsure.

 

_No. Your task is not finished._

Daryl blinks, before he presses his lips together and slowly pushes himself to his feet. "I have to bring Rick Grimes to Heaven," he says.

 

 _Yes_.

 

"And stop Samael, from whatever he plans to do."

 

_If you'd like._

"But how? My powers are gone. I'm just…"

 

Human.

 

_If I might plagiarize my friend, you must have faith._

Daryl shakes his head and looks back to the smoldering car. Drunk driver. A little too dumb and distracted. Daryl remembers dying, now, remembers bleeding out on the side of the road with a shard of glass in his thigh and the night growing colder and colder. He remembers a man finding him, his eyes black and his smile wide, and offering his hand and a chance at salvation.

 

A trick. One huge, cosmic joke.

 

"I ain't gonna let you make me forget again," Daryl says. "No matter what happens."

 

 _As you wish_ , Death replies, and vanishes in another swirl of his robes, kicking up a wind like the last breath of a dying man.

 

Living again feels strange. Daryl looks down at his hands, curling his fingers. His knuckles ache sharply. He thinks two of his fingers might be broken. His wrist, too, is swollen and purple. Everything hurts but whether it's God or lingering powers from the Devil doing it, Daryl's body doesn't surrender to his wounds and allow him to die.

 

He lifts his head as he hears a car approaching, lights on to illuminate the road up ahead. They have their brights on, blinding as they crest the hill and speed down. Daryl lifts his arm and winces as the car slows to a stop next to him.

 

The window rolls down and he lowers his arm, eyes widening when he sees it's Rick. "Son of a bitch," Rick says, looking him up and down. Daryl looks different than Lucifer, he knows that, but not so different that Rick wouldn't recognize him on sight. "What happened to you?"

 

Daryl looks up, biting his lip, and shrugs one shoulder. "I fell," he says.

 

"You…fell," Rick repeats.

 

Daryl looks behind him, to the smoldering car wreck. He approaches it and sees where his motorcycle careened into the trees. Something shines in the light from Rick's car and Daryl approaches it, bending down to pick it up. His sunglasses. One of the lenses is shattered and Daryl knows he won't be able to see through them as he did – they aren't the pair his predecessor magicked, after all – but nostalgia and familiarity pulses through him at the sight of them. He tucks them into the front of his shirt and turns back around, walking up to Rick's car.

 

It's a small miracle that Rick hasn't driven off and left him to wander and die of his wounds. He gets in the car and settles into the passenger seat with a sigh, wincing when his stomach aches sharply from bruises and his shoulders burn, the muscles torn and tender.

 

Rick regards him for another long moment, before he starts the car back up and begins to drive. Daryl has no idea where they are – his natural ability to locate himself no matter where he appeared on the Earthly plane is gone – but he knows, dimly, that he died close to Raleigh, in North Carolina.

 

"You look different," Rick says after a moment.

 

Daryl nods and looks down at his hands again. "This is how I looked before…before I became Lucifer."

 

"How long ago was that?"

 

"Not sure. Twenty years, maybe?"

 

"Jesus."

 

Daryl winces, and reaches into the pocket of his jacket to grab the smashed packet of cigarettes. "You don't mind, do you?" Rick presses his lips together and shakes his head, but keeps the window rolled down as Daryl finds a cigarette that's salvageable. He holds up his finger to light it with a little flame, only remembering that he can't do that anymore. "Shit, you got a light?"

 

"Yeah," Rick replies, and reaches into the middle console, opening it up and pulling out a lighter. He hands it to Daryl, who takes it and lights the cigarette, one palm cupped around the little, tender flame so that the wind generated from Rick's car doesn't put it out. He takes a deep breath and puts the lighter back.

 

They sit in silence for a long time. There's no radio, nothing to break the whir of the air passing by as Rick drives and the hum of his engine. Daryl looks over at Rick and sees flesh and bone. No soul, nothing beneath the skin reveals itself to him. His eyes are mortal, and somehow that makes looking at Rick even more unsettling than it was before.

 

Rick's eyes flash to him and he clenches his jaw. "Why are you staring at me?"

 

"You look different, too," Daryl says. Rick has washed the blood from his hands and hair, somewhere between where Lucifer left him and Daryl reappeared to him.

 

Rick's eyes flash, but he doesn't respond to that. "Your accent changed," he says, before he frowns. "So, if you're not Lucifer anymore…who are you?"

 

"I don't remember much," Daryl replies. "I know my name is Daryl. Dixon, I think. I died in that car accident, however long ago that was."

 

"So, you jumped back in time?"

 

"More like time jumped forward. I think Death brought me here so that you would find me."

 

"Okay." Rick takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "So. Fuck. Lucifer, the fuckin' _Devil_ , is sitting in my passenger seat and telling me _God_ needs me to get into Heaven and _Death_ is apparently involved in all this too – _and_ can time jump. Do you people ever consider that this is the slightest bit completely insane?"

 

"There's more," Daryl says, somewhat sheepishly. "I may have accidentally started the Apocalypse."

 

Rick is quiet for a moment, looking over at him before his survival instinct forces his sight back onto the road. "The…Apocalypse," he says slowly, taking another deep breath. "Alright. Do me a favor and look up the nearest mental institution."

 

Daryl rolls his eyes. "You're funny," he mutters, and takes another deep pull from the cigarette. His ribcage and lungs ache sharply in protest.

 

"What does this have to do with me?" Rick demands. " _If_ it still has anything to do with me."

 

"I don't know," Daryl whispers. "I made the mistake of trusting the wrong people. But God told me to have faith, so…that's what I'm gonna do."

 

"How can you have faith like that?" Rick asks.

 

"Because I've seen it," Daryl replies. "The dead are rising, and the Devil is coming, and a darkness I've never seen before wants the walk the Earth. And, somehow, it has something to do with you. So, I'm going to stick around and make sure you don't do anything stupid like get yourself killed, and I guess we'll just wing it between then and now."

 

"Just wing it," Rick repeats.

 

"Were you always a nonbeliever?" Daryl asks, taking another drag. "Can't imagine you were raised that way, growin' up in Georgia an' all."

 

Rick shakes his head. "I've seen enough darkness in the world to know that if God does exist, He stopped giving a shit a long time ago."

 

"What do you make of me, then?"

 

Rick looks at him and Daryl gestures to himself.

 

"Here I am, real and livin' proof that God exists, and that He _is_ payin' attention. Payin' very specific attention to you. How's that factor in to your cynical side, Officer Friendly?"

 

Rick grits his teeth, jaw clenching. His grip goes tight on the wheel for a moment. "Don't call me that."

 

"'Rick' it is, then," Daryl says with a smile, and finishes off his cigarette, flicking it out into the forest as it flies by. Rick is going well over the speed limit and the car is whining. Daryl sees a sign for Charlotte come and go.

 

"I should just drop you here at the side of the road and call it a day," Rick mutters after another long, few moments of silence.

 

Daryl smirks. "Yeah. Probably should."

 

"You said you have no powers anymore. You can't change my voice, or hide me, or make me do anythin' I don't wanna do."

 

"True, but I _can_ call the V.A. cops and give them your description when they find Negan's body."

 

Rick's eyes flash to him and widen. "You wouldn't."

 

"I don't take up much space," Daryl says, stretching out and wincing when his knees pop and settle. He rolls one ankle and hears the bones grinding together. "I'm sure we can find a way to work together before the end of the world crashes down on our heads."

 

"I've been told to avoid making deals with the Devil."

 

"Ah, but I ain't the Devil anymore, am I?"

 

"Unless you're lying."

 

Daryl rolls his eyes. "Believe me, there are a lot of easier ways to fake falling from Grace, and they sure as shit don't involve me faceplanting into the asphalt. So, I'm not lying. Samael is going to bring about the end of the world and for some weird reason it has something to do with you, and I'm not done with ya, and God's not done with ya, so you're pretty much stuck with me until I get bored and peace the fuck out, or we end up doin' whatever it is we need to do."

 

Rick smirks. "And you don't know what that is, yet."

 

"No," Daryl mutters, turning back to face forward. "But I have ways of finding out."

 

 

 

 

 

They drive through the night. Even though Daryl knows Rick has been awake for at least twenty-four hours, he shows no sign of fatigue, and no signs of stopping. Whether he's dosing up on caffeine in a way Daryl can't notice or he's used to long stretches of time without sleep, Daryl can't possibly say.

 

It's frustrating as all Hell. Without his glasses, and his sight, he can't see the flickers of emotions across Rick's soul – or anyone's soul, for that matter. He can't read what will make a man want to sin, can't read a woman's vices. Can't see if this person will be more likely to gamble, this one to drink, this one to commit adultery. He can't see the future or the past anymore. He aches, down to his bones. He's in so much pain but his body won't let him sleep.

 

So, he stays awake and he smokes, until the cigarettes that had maintained their integrity are gone and he's down to the last one. He sees a sign for a rest stop and sits up.

 

"There," he says. "Pull over."

 

Rick frowns. "You think you're gettin' outta this car lookin' like that?"

 

"I can -." And Daryl hesitates because he _can't_. He can't walk in and move around unseen. He can't pull the veil of night over his shoulders or change his complexion so that he's not bleeding and obviously wounded. He huffs. "Fine, then _you_ can go in and buy some more for me."

 

Rick lets out a derisive snort. "No," he says. "That shit'll kill ya."

 

"Maybe I should just let you go to Hell. You'd go to Wrath. Pretty sure. If Minos can figure out what the fuck to do with you."

 

"Minos?" Rick repeats, frowning.

 

Daryl rolls his eyes. "Don't you read?" he demands, though truthfully the only reason he knows the serpent's name is because his predecessor told him. Daryl's mother had raised him on stories of a benevolent God while his father had reminded him that even God had had His wrathful times. All of the knowledge given to Lucifer was passed down from King to King as they passed down the line. Daryl is no longer Lucifer, but there is no one to take his place, and so the knowledge remains. He wonders what will happen when and if Samael succeeds in taking his throne back, what he'll do to Daryl and all those who came before him and helped, either by will or not, to keep him at bay.

 

He shakes the thoughts away and sees that his arms have broken out into goose bumps. Fear grips his heart like the ice in the lake had, crushing his ribs and threatening to pull him under.

 

"Hey, you okay?" Rick asks, and reaches out to pet a hand down his trembling arm. He squeezes gently on Daryl's uninjured wrist.

 

Daryl shakes his head, trying to clear it of the terrible things he's seen and knows. "Minos is a giant metal snake. It guards the lower levels of Hell and judges everyone who goes, to determine which circle they go to."

 

"Wait, I thought Hell had a dog or something."

 

"Kerebos is there, too. He's more like the doorman, though. Minos is the guy behind the desk who tells you what room you have."

 

"…Sure. Fine. Okay. So, this giant metal snake would tell me where I ended up?"

 

Daryl nods. "It works like this," he says, and holds his hands out in front of him, palms facing each other. "Every soul is like…a void. Or a bucket, I guess. And every sin is this color, and it stains the bucket and starts to fill it up. The more you sin, or the bigger the sins, the faster your bucket fills and the brighter the color. Doing good shit can make some of it go away, or wipe some of the color away, or make it smaller."

 

He looks up to make sure Rick is paying attention. Rick's eyes are on the road but Daryl can tell that he's listening keenly to Daryl's explanation.

 

"The idea is that, at the end of your life, your soul goes to Heaven or Hell. Obviously, people who go to Heaven just go there, and the void is filled with God's light and you exist happily ever after, yahta yahta yahta. If you go to Hell, Minos looks at your void and judges the colors there. If there's a lot of one type, that's where you end up, because that's the kind of sin you most likely had."

 

"So, if someone was really greedy, for instance…" Rick starts.

 

Daryl lowers his hands and nods. "Greed, or Avarice. It's a slick, golden color. Not quite real gold. Greener, like Fool's Gold. Minos would look at that soul and see all that color and that's where that person would end up."

 

"And I…would end up in Wrath," Rick says, the words quiet and unsteady. "According to your theory."

 

"That's the thing," Daryl explains, sitting forward. "You don't _have_ a bucket."

 

Rick frowns and Daryl can feel his eyes on his face. They're shining brightly with each pass of the overhead lights, sweeping across his face and arms as he continues to drive. Daryl licks his lips and shakes his head. "There's no void. There's no sin. No bucket. No _nothing_."

 

"So, you're saying I don't have a soul?"

 

"No, I'm saying yours is flat. It's like a mirror. I've never seen anything like it."

 

"So…what does that mean?"

 

"It means you don't take on any sin. Even murder. I saw you and I didn't see any color there. I don't know where you're going to end up if you die before I get you into Heaven."

 

"Not sure how you're gonna do that now in the first place," Rick says. "What about all this 'free will' bullshit?"

 

"I don't know," Daryl says, and lets out a frustrated huff. He runs his hands through his hair, wincing when he feels where his skull cracked at the back from the force of hitting the tree. "Fuck, that crash really messed me up."

 

"I have no idea how you're still alive."

 

"Pure force of will, I guess," Daryl says, huffing. "Or Divine Intervention."

 

"There seems to be a lot of that goin' around."

 

Daryl sighs, closing his eyes.

 

Rick remains silent, driving on. Neither of them speak.

 

 

 

 

 

Daryl is standing on the edge of the frozen lake. The cave is dark, no light shining from beneath the lake from the light of the fallen souls, or from the shack where Samael dwells. The building is completely destroyed, only a black line to mark where the foundation once was.

 

He steps forward, shivering as the cold bites him like a rabid animal, stinging his bare arms and his neck and his face. His feet touch the edge of the lake and the icy water soaks into his shoes. The lake has been broken, none of the souls trapped below are still there.

 

He falls to his knees and gasps when the cold water wets his jeans, soaking into the material. He takes off his gloves and puts his hands in the water and brings it to his mouth, taking a sip from his trembling hands. As the water falls between his fingers it caresses his knuckles, runs down his wrists and arms, and he feels the bruises, the cuts, the breaks start to heal.

 

He puts his hands back in the water and raises them over his head, wincing when his skull snaps and melts back into one piece. The ice is there to preserve, he understands that like he understands the feeling of gravity, something instinctual settled in the back of his mind. The souls here never waste away, they never die, really. They're not allowed to break.

 

The water heals him, and Daryl stands. Samael is not here, and neither are any of the souls trapped beneath the icy lake. It takes a long time to travel through all the circles of Hell, especially if Samael intends to recruit and free those trapped below on his way to the surface. Minos, Cerberus, and all the avenging Angels standing guard will not be able to hold them off for long.

 

He must warn Gabrielle. And Raphael, and Michael if they still care. They must care.

 

Daryl feels warm breath on the back of his neck and across his shoulders, and turns to see Cerberus' green eyes blinking down at him. The dog cocks all three heads to one side, tail wagging wildly. Daryl has always gotten the sense that Cerberus favors him most of all. Maybe because Daryl used to bring him treats.

 

Or maybe it's even simpler than that, since technically Daryl still has the title of Lucifer, so Cerberus owes him his loyalty, and will eat him when his time is over. Daryl bites his lower lip and looks back to the lake, before he sighs and gingerly climbs up onto the dog's neck when Cerberus lays his Heaven head down.

 

"Let's go back," he commands, and Cerberus barks softly, lifting his heads and turning to walk back through the broken door.

 

 

 

 

 

Daryl jerks awake with a gasp, shivering despite the relative heat of Rick's car. He wraps his arms around his chest tightly and pulls his legs up so his heels rest against the front of the seat. Rick looks at him and blinks. "Your head," he says, and Daryl lifts a hand to brush his fingers along the cut on his temple. The blood is still there, drying and tacky, but the cut itself is gone. His skull, too, is no longer fractured and throbbing.

 

He smiles. "Small blessin's," he murmurs.

 

Rick rolls his eyes. "We're about an hour out," he says, and Daryl nods. "I can't…I can't bring you to my house. You know that, right?"

 

"Well, since I basically fell face-first into the ground and didn't land on a giant pile of money, I'm not sure what the other options are."

 

Rick presses his lips together, fingers tightening on the wheel. Daryl can see, in the distance, the beginnings of civilization start to crop up around him. Now the exit signs from the highway are more densely marked with gas stations, fast food places, and hotels. The glow from lights creates an orb of red and yellow in the darkness from light pollution, blocking out the stars.

 

"I can't bring you into my house," Rick says again, more adamantly this time. "Not around my wife. My kid."

 

"I happen to be great with kids," Daryl says.

 

Rick shakes his head and sighs. "You don't understand," he mutters.

 

"And I won't, with that attitude," Daryl replies. He reaches into his jacket before remembering that he doesn't have any damn cigarettes left and huffs out a frustrated breath. He links his fingers together and slides them through his hair until they cup the back of his neck, and stretches out with a heavy sigh. "Not that I think it'd help, with you. Havin' my powers back. So, I guess we have to do this the good ol' fashioned way and actually communicate with each other."

 

Rick sighs, his jaw clenching. "I'm going through a divorce right now," he says darkly. "I don't need to be bringin' home strangers in the middle of the night on top of everything else."

 

Daryl looks down at his knuckles, seeing that the gloves remained in Hell when he went there in his dreams. They're still dark with old blood but don't hurt anymore. "You like roughin' up your boytoys normally?" he asks.

 

"Lori knows I'm attracted to men, that I always have been," Rick says, still with that dark, bitter tone. "I'm sure she won't see far past that. So, I can't bring you home." He presses his lips together and shakes his head. "I'll drop you off at a motel, or somethin', and put it on my card. Until you go away or I decide what to do with you."

 

"What a gentleman," Daryl says with a roll of his eyes, but it's the best he's going to get out of Rick right now, he knows that. And it is a kindness, reluctant though it may be. He sighs and sits back on the chair again, his eyes gazing out to the dark forest as it ebbs and flows around them like a black tide.

 

 

 

 

 

Rick drops him off at a motel on the outskirts of King County. Daryl climbs out of the car, wincing at the stain of blood he's left behind on the passenger seat. His clothes are still marked and luckily, he's wearing dark clothes, but his appearance still won't hold up under scrutiny too intense.

 

Rick, it seems, reaches this conclusion at around the same time. He bites his lower lip and gets out of the car. "Wait here," he says. "I'll check you in."

 

"Thanks," Daryl says. "You got any cash on you?"

 

"Some. Why?"

 

"I spy a cigarette machine," Daryl says, nodding to the glow of a vending machine close to the entrance of the lobby. There's one for drinks, one for snacks, but beyond those two, tucked away and darkly lit, is one for packs of cigarettes.

 

Rick frowns. "It's illegal to place them publicly," he mutters, shaking his head.

 

"Yeah, yeah, you can arrest the manager later," Daryl says, holding out his hand. "You got a ten?"

 

"I really shouldn't be enabling you," Rick says, but reaches into his wallet and pulls out two fives and gives it to Daryl. Daryl smirks and gives him a half-hearted salute, and walks over to the machine as Rick enters the motel to get him a room.

 

He slides the fives in and buys the cheapest pack, pocketing the change and walking back over to Rick's car. It's still unlocked, and he reaches in and grabs the lighter, sliding it into his pocket as well as Rick comes back out of the lobby and hands him a small key with a large metal disk attached to it with the room number.

 

"Room 107," Rick says when Daryl takes it. "It's ground floor and you can smoke in there."

 

"Thanks," Daryl says, smiling.

 

Rick blows out a heavy breath, shaking his head. "I shouldn't be doing any of this," he mutters. "You're…I don't even know what I believe anymore. What do I even say to – to Lori? About why I was gone?"

 

"If it's any consolation, I don't think your soul being built the way it is makes you a bad person," Daryl replies. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Rick's lighter, lighting the first cigarette. Rick's eyes flash with recognition but he doesn't protest the fact that Daryl swiped the lighter and intends to keep it.

 

"Ain't much of a consolation," Rick says.

 

Daryl takes in a deep breath from the cigarette. It's cheap and bitter but he lets it fill his mouth and lungs with smoke, dulling his teeth and filling his head with nicotine. His heart gives several heavy thumps in his chest.

 

"I'm going to help you," he finally says, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke. Rick waves his hand to bat it away from his face and Daryl smirks. "Have a good night, Rick."

 

"Yeah, you too," Rick says, turning to get back into his car. He hesitates, his hand on the door, and looks back up at Daryl. "You didn't die with your cell phone, did you?"

 

Daryl looks down and checks his pockets, finding nothing. He shakes his head.

 

"Alright. That'll be second on the agenda," he says. "Ain't like I can pray to you anymore."

 

"Did you ever?" Daryl asks, rolling his eyes because Rick is mocking him. "Fuck off, Officer Friendly. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

"Good night, Lucifer."

 

Daryl rolls his eyes. " _Daryl_ ," he says, as Rick opens the door to his car. Rick pauses, regarding him for a long moment, before he presses his lips together and nods.

 

"Good night, Daryl," he says, softer this time, much more genuine, and gets into the car, slamming the door shut harshly behind him. Daryl lifts his hand and gives a little wave, before he steps away and around the side of the building in an attempt to find his room. It's towards the back of the building and he throws the cigarette out and steps inside.

 

It stinks of smoke and old, wet clothes inside and Daryl wrinkles his nose, shaking his head as though to clear it. He cracks open the window and turns on the air conditioning unit built in underneath in an attempt to get some circulation of air in the room. He is, after all, much more sensitive now to things like mold and mildew.

 

He sheds his clothes, smirking when he pulls off the leather vest and sees the wings sewn into the back of them. Another memory flashes in front of his eyes, of his brother and father, standing in front of a trailer as it burned to the ground.

 

His fingers clench in the material and he throws it onto the bed. Rick had gotten him a room with a Queen-sized bed. Whether the clerk had seen Daryl and asked if they were sharing the room, or whatever Rick had asked for, Daryl can't say one way or the other.

 

He pulls his sunglasses out from the front of his shirt and squints through them, before putting them down on the little desk table against one wall, at the foot of the bed. There's a bedside table with an alarm clock and then a closet, with a door on the other side leading to the bathroom. There's a mirror and a sink between the closet and the bathroom, so that the bathroom only has a toilet and shower inside.

 

Daryl approaches the mirror and turns on the water from the sink, running his hands under the warm water. There's a bar of complimentary soap sitting on a soap dish and he unwraps it and runs the bar over his hands and up his arms.

 

The water turns pink as he scrubs his hands clean. He sighs and turns the water off, looking into the bathroom. He should shower, but he doesn't have clothes to change back into and the thought of getting out of his dirty clothes, only to shower and get back into them, isn't a pleasant one. He grabs one of the smaller towels from over the toilet and wets it, before he wraps it around the bar of soap and scrubs at his face, and neck, and any other part of his exposed and bloody skin he was reach.

 

When he's done he unwraps the towel and rinses it, before setting both to one side. Then he grabs one of the upside-down glasses and fills it, and ducks forward to pour it over his hair. He does it again and again until he feels all of his hair is wet and washed, and then he turns the water off and straightens.

 

"Mother of -." He grits his teeth, jerking when he sees Metatron standing behind him in the mirror. He growls and turns around to glare at the other man. "You almost gave me a fuckin' heart attack."

 

Metatron's eyes rake over him, his mustache twitching in disapproval, and he frowns. "You've seen better days," he says.

 

Daryl rolls his eyes and grabs a second towel, wrapping it around his hair and drying it quickly. He walks out of the sink area and towards the bed. "Yeah. Falling from Grace is exactly as fun as they say it is. You should try it sometime."

 

"You're still funny as ever," Metatron replies blandly. "So. I take it your mission isn't going very well?"

 

"That depends," Daryl says, sitting down heavily on the bed and putting the towel to one side. He sighs and scratches at his chin. "Did my mission include starting the Apocalypse? 'Cause that's about the latest update I can give right now."

 

"The Apocalypse?" Metatron shakes his head and lets out a very put-out-sounding huff. "Of course, it would be you, wouldn't it? Seven Devils we've had, including Samael, and _you're_ the one that manages to bring about the end of days."

 

"Hey, I didn't exactly _intend_ for this to happen," Daryl growls, glaring at Metatron. "But now I'm stuck here, don't have none of the powers anymore, and for some reason it has somethin' to do with Rick and I can't even -." He growls again and gestures to his broken glasses. "I can't even see shit like normal."

 

"Oh, these?" Metatron says, holding up the glasses and peering through them without putting them on his head. "I can fix these."

 

Daryl looks up with wide, hopeful eyes as Metatron breathes on them and rubs them on his sweater vest. When he holds them up again, the lenses are no longer broken, and he hands them to Daryl. When Daryl puts them to his eyes, he gasps when he can see Metatron as normal, now, with the glow of God's light filling him from the inside.

 

"Well, that's an improvement," Daryl says, taking the glasses off and putting them in the front of his shirt again. "Don't suppose you could find it in your heart to conjure me up some clean clothes and money and shit?"

 

Metatron smirks. "I like you like this," he says.

 

Daryl rolls his eyes and glares at Metatron. "Are you gonna be helpful or not?"

 

"I've been thinking about your offer."®

 

"What offer?"

 

"To take over from you. To be King of Hell."

 

"…And?" Daryl asks, remembering Samael's words to him. _Time to give up your title._ He goes tense and clenches his fingers in the bedding, waiting for Metatron's answer.

 

Metatron sighs and shakes his head. "As tempting as the offer is, I think it would be better if I were to decline. I'm not meant for that kind of…atmosphere."

 

Daryl releases the breath he'd been holding, forcing his body to relax. "I get it," he says. "It's not for everyone." He looks up and presses his lips together. "Can you do me a favor?"

 

"Perhaps," Metatron. "What do you need?"

 

"I need to speak with the Seraphiel. If they are able, tell them to visit me."

 

Metatron blinks, cocking his head to one side, but gives a short nod of acceptance. "I can do that," he says. Daryl smiles, grateful despite everything. "I will take my leave of you now, but I will keep my ears open. If you need me again, you know how to reach me."

 

"Thank you," Daryl says. "Wish me luck."

 

"Godspeed," Metatron replies, and disappears with a flutter of wings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fixed the formatting! Yay!
> 
> Also, it's come to my attention that some people might be confused as to who/what Samael is. In Jewish lore, and in some of the Apocryphal texts, Samael is a few different things. He's Satan, the "Poison of God", the Angel of Death, the Deceiver, etc. So it's safe to say he's the "Original Devil". I was raised on stories that in Jewish tradition, Samael is the first Angel to fall because he's the first Angel to change and question God's reverence for humans. So! He's the original Devil, The Big Kahunah, and so on, and that's why his name is involved as the first guy to be the Devil.
> 
> Hope that clears some things up! Enjoy!
> 
> *It's worth noting that I'm not Jewish, so of course that might not be accurate, however I did some research and found enough to justify me making Samael the original Devil.

Daryl wakes to a pounding on his door. He jerks upright, grimacing when his clothes stick to his body, and looks over at the alarm clock by the bed. The sensation of sleeping is foreign but welcome to him, enough that he lets out a grumble of annoyance at being woken up at four in the fucking morning.

"Daryl, you in there?" Rick's voice floats across from the other side, accompanied by another set of hard knocks. "It's Rick. Open the door."

"I'm comin, I'm comin'," Daryl replies with another harsh growl, pushing himself upright and going to the door. He has enough paranoia to check the peephole before opening the door, letting out a quiet sigh of relief than he sees that it is, indeed, Rick, and that he appears to have come alone.

Rick pushes his way inside and Daryl closes the door behind him. "Somethin' wrong?" Daryl asks, looking Rick up at down. The man looks jittery, like he's been chugging caffeine all night. There are dark circles under his eyes and his fingers keep twitching.

Rick looks at him for a long, long moment. He has a rucksack slung over one shoulder and, after a moment, he sighs and throws it at Daryl. Daryl catches it and opens it, seeing clothes and a cell phone sitting inside.

"I had…really weird dreams," Rick says after a moment. Daryl takes the cell phone out – it's a plain flip phone, a burner phone. There's only one number in it and he knows that it's Rick's. "Awful dreams. I couldn't sleep."

"You wanna talk about 'em?" Daryl asks, setting the phone down on the table. He pulls the clothes out. They're plain and basic, like Rick went to Walmart and grabbed the most generic sets of t-shirts and jeans that he could find. There is a hoodie in there too, black and nondescript. Daryl pulls out the clothes and takes his bloody shirt off, tossing it to one side, and slides one of the t-shirts on instead.

When he turns, he sees Rick watching him again, bright eyes almost glowing in the light coming from the overhead by the sink. Rick clears his throat, cheeks turning pink, and looks away. He shakes his head. "Not really," he replies. "But I think I should."

"They have professionals for that," Daryl says with a shrug.

Rick glares at him. "Well, since it's _your_ fuckin' fault -."

"Woah, hey," Daryl mutters, holding his hands up. "I didn't _choose_ to babysit your crazy ass."

"But you didn't say 'No', did you?" Rick demands. "And now you're sayin' the fuckin' _Devil_ is real, that God is real, that somehow you being here caused the Apocalypse and it's gonna involve me and now I'm having these _dreams_ -."

He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and looks back to the door.

Daryl presses his lips together and walks over to Rick, resting a hand on his arm lightly. "What did you dream about?" he asks.

Rick licks his lips, ducks his head so he's looking at the ground. He scratches his nails through his hair and then wipes his hand over his mouth, breathing out heavily through his nose. "I saw a lake of ice," he says. "And it was breaking apart. And there was this light, but it wasn't… _good_ light. I don't know how to describe it. And there was a man, but he was a giant, and he didn't speak but I felt his voice in my head and it _hurt_."

Daryl's eyes widen and he lets go of Rick. It's not possible, there is no way Rick could have seen what Lucifer saw, what Samael did, and yet -. "…Is this the first time you've had that dream?" he asks.

Rick shakes his head. "Yes. But it felt familiar. All of it. Like I've had it before." He rubs both hands over his face and heaves a shuddering breath. "I feel like I'm losin' my damn mind. And it's the end of the world, now, huh?"

Daryl nods.

"So, where's the panic? The Hellfire? The sky turning red and raining blood? That's what happens, right?"

Daryl manages a weak smile and shakes his head. "Not quite."

"What happens, then?"

Daryl sits down on the bed and, after a moment, Rick joins him. Daryl puts his elbows on his knees and runs his hands through his damp hair, scratching at the back of his neck lightly. "First, there will be a cull," he says. "I'm not sure how it works, honestly. That was never going to be my part to play so I was never told. But there will be a cull of all the mortals on Earth, so that by the end of it only the Righteous and strong will be left alive."

Rick lets out a shaky exhale. "What about people like me?" he asks. "You said I don't have the ability to take on anything, one way or the other."

"I don't know," Daryl replies, turning his head to look up at Rick.

Rick lets out a quiet growl and turns his gaze away. "You don't seem to have much of an idea of anything," he mutters.

"Hey, if you think God's more forthcomin' with info about shit just 'cause I happen to have met Him, you're wrong," Daryl replies. "Guy's more cryptic than…I dunno…a cryptic thing."

"Descriptive," Rick says, smirking.

"Shut up, I'm trying to talk about the Apocalypse here."

"Go on, then."

"I think it has something to do with the dead," Daryl says. "The souls that were trapped in the lake of ice with Samael. They got out. I think Samael intends to break out of Hell with all the sinners, all the dead, and that's how it'll go down."

"He'll…raise the dead?" Rick repeats, weakly.

"Probably," Daryl replies. "If Death lets him do it."

"Jesus Christ."

"He'll show up, eventually," Daryl adds. "When God allows him to do it. When there's no more sin in the world." He looks over at Rick. "That's how Abraham saved Sodom, you know. He said to God 'Will you save the city if I find fifty righteous men there?' And then twenty. And then ten. And then one. When there aren't any more evil men, the Apocalypse will end, and the Kingdom of Heaven will come down to Earth and, I don't know, I guess we all go skipping into the sunset singin' showtunes."

Rick stares at him for a long, long moment, until Daryl thinks they might both turn to stone from the stasis. Then, Rick stands, shaking his head.

"The dead ain't gonna rise," he says, and heads for the door. "That's impossible. You're talkin' about fuckin'…" He stops, his hand on the door handle, and looks over his shoulder at Daryl. "I don't believe you," he says.

"The chosen never do," Daryl replies. He stands and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cigarettes and Rick's lighter. "Thanks for the clothes. And the phone."

"Don't call me," Rick says.

"Only if you do the same."

Rick closes the door behind him and Daryl lights one of the cigarettes, putting the pack down on the table and the lighter next to the pack as he takes a deep drag. Now that he's alone he grabs a pair of jeans that Rick brought him and trades them out for the ones he's wearing. They're a little loose around the waist but they fit reasonably well. Rick has a good eye.

It's closer to five now than four, and Daryl's stomach has started to ache with hunger. He takes another puff from his cigarette and stares at the lit end of it, the small trail of smoke rising from the glowing cherry center like it will give him all of the answers.

He turns his head and looks out where the curtains are cracked a couple of inches to let him know when the sun starts to rise. At this time of year, the sun is a late riser, but Daryl can see that the sky is mellowing from black to a rich, darker blue. Closer to the horizon the clouds look orange.

He gets up and holds the cigarette between his lips, digging out the change from his other set of jeans, and goes out to the vending machines. He gets a bag of Doritos and a bottle of Coke and goes back to his room.

He closes the door behind him and as soon as it clicks shut, there's a knock. Daryl frowns, setting down the food and drink, and goes to the peephole. On the other side are three women and a man. He doesn't recognize their faces, but he knows who they are because they all look like a set of identical quadruplets and even with their glamor, they can't hide their black eyes.

He opens the door and smiles. The smallest one, East, grins back at him. "Welcome," he says, and steps back so that they may enter.

North is the tallest of her siblings and stands over Daryl's head, at just over six feet tall. Her hair is long and matches the color of her wings. East's hair is cropped short, dipped in red at the ends but blonde at the top. West is the third female and a pale mix of blues and purples. South is the only male of the four and he's slender, his hair jet black and his skin glowing dully when he looks over at Daryl.

"Hello, Lucifer," he greets.

"I'm not Lucifer anymore," Daryl replies.

"You are until there is another one," East says, smiling. "Is there another one? No. So, Lucifer you remain."

Daryl sighs and picks up his Coke, unscrewing the cap and listening to the tiny hiss that the drink lets out, before he takes a drink of it. Then he sets it down and takes one last puff from the cigarette and ashes it out in the little tray on the bedside table.

"Have you heard the news?" Daryl asks.

North blinks. "The Host have been singing nothing but praises all day," she says. "What news?"

"Samael is free," Daryl says.

West and East exchange a look. South frowns. "Free?" he repeats, looking to his sisters. "I don't understand."

"I went to the ninth circle, under your advice," Daryl replies, gesturing to East and North. "I went there and I told him about Rick, about his soul. He…I don't know what happened. He shattered the lake, and tried to kill me, and told me I should give up the title of Lucifer to someone else. Then there was this…this _shadow_."

"Show me," East says, and holds out her hand. Daryl puts his palm against East's, and West, North, and South touch East's shoulder so that they can see what she sees. Daryl recalls the sight of Samael's large, golden wings, the way the souls had felt clawing into his flesh – the giant shadow man that had crawled out from underneath Samael's house.

East gasps and withdraws her hand sharply, her eyes flashing as she clutches her wrist as though Daryl tried to hurt her. West is visibly trembling.

"Cain," she says, her eyes wide with fear. South wraps an arm around her shoulders and West whines. West has always been the one who suffers the most. When men go West, they bring with them destruction and ruin. West is the direction they hate the most because she is the way the sun goes when it disappears over the horizon. West is the one who hosted the Light bringer when he was finished with his work, and knew Samael the best.

West puts her head in her hands and sobs. "Cain is risen."

"What does it mean?" Daryl demands. His palm aches from touching East and he rubs at it absently.

"We must return to God," North says urgently. "He will come to His throne and we must be there."

"Wait, please!" Daryl says, reaching out and grabbing hold of East's arm. "Please, help me. Help me see what to do. I don't know what to do."

East regards him for a long moment. Then, her eyes flash away from him, over his shoulder. "It's happening," she whispers.

"What's happening? What's going on?"

East reaches back out and touches Daryl's cheek. "Find Rick Grimes," she says, and Daryl grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut as a vision passes behind his eyelids, a street and a highway and a road leading up to a suburban cluster of houses. Rick's house is there. It has a door painted red and warm light coming from within. "Protect him. Don't let Cain reach him."

"Is no one going to explain what the _fuck_ is going on?"

"We have to leave," South says, still holding onto West's shaking shoulders. There are tears running between her fingers, black and glistening. He looks at Daryl. "I will help you," he adds. "I will send you the Messenger."

Gabrielle. If anyone will know what's happening and be able to explain everything to him, it will be her. "Thank you," Daryl breathes, and South nods. He gathers his sisters up against him and herds them towards the door. North pauses, the last to leave, and looks back at Daryl.

"Don't let the mortal in you stray from the task," she says, like a warning. Daryl frowns.

"What do you mean?"

She smiles. "What I said," she replies, and Daryl huffs and rolls his eyes as she lets the door close behind her. He sees their glow through the curtains, and then it disappears as they leave the Earthly plane and take their places around God's throne, to protect Him and watch Him as the Apocalypse runs its course.

Maybe it's because he's mortal again, and doesn't have the patience of an angel, but it's frustrating as Hell that no one will give him a straight fuckin' answer. He resists the urge to use the Lord's name in vain, more out of habit than anything else. As a man, before his time as Lucifer, Daryl knows he wasn't particularly religious. He believed in God before, simply because there was no way this was all random, but after seeing and living amongst the Heavenly Host and the Hell buried beneath, he finds a strange twist has happened.

The more he knows about Heaven, Hell, and all things between, the less he believes in it.

He runs his hands through his hair and grabs his Doritos, opening the package and eating the first large pieces, and sits back down on the bed. He knows where Rick lives now, thanks to East's help. He should go there and…

And what? What, exactly, would he do or say to convince Rick to come with him? Do they even need to move? Is this a hunt or an adventure? Daryl doesn't know. And he doesn't know what, exactly, he's supposed to be 'protecting' Rick from. He's not a guardian angel, that's for damn certain.

He finishes the bag, tipping it up to get the crumbs, and throws the bag away. He finishes his Coke soon after and the bottle joins its friend. It's still too early and Gabrielle doesn't do anything when there isn't daylight. He believes South will send her, but when she shows up will be entirely on her agenda and there's nothing Daryl can do to hurry it along.

He huffs and considers the small, old television sitting on the table at the end of his bed. It's a box television and probably has worse resolution than Daryl would know what to do with, but it's all he can hope for in terms of entertainment.

He finds the remote in the first drawer of the bedside table, along with a Bible. He rolls his eyes and closes the drawer and turns the television on.

A news channel comes on first, something about a scandal in the White House. "When is there not a scandal in the White House?" Daryl mutters, flicking the channel. He has to give credit to whichever of his predecessors managed to curse that ground. Daryl has never had a head for politics, himself. Not big, corporate politics anyway. People, he understands. People, he can read, especially when he'd gotten older. Even before his time as Lucifer, before the glasses, before the concept of sin really factored in, he'd been good at figuring out what a person wanted and what he had to offer to get his own in the tradeoff.

Politics on a nationwide scale, though? No, thank you.

He changes the channel again to a different news station. "And we're getting in more reports about this sickness sweeping across the nation… It looks like a very deadly, aggressive form of the flu virus…"

Daryl bites his lip and changes the channel.

"People are urged to stay home if they are displaying any symptoms. Hospitals across the nation are full to the brim with people -."

"- The Mayor of New York has cleared out space near Central Park where people are flocking for an antidote and care for this virus -.

"We're going to Tricia for a live report -."

"Thank you, Joe. As you can see -."

" _Oh my God!_ "

Daryl's eyes widen as he sees a group of people behind the woman on the news scatter, screaming and shouting in panic. There's a young man clutching his arm, bleeding heavily. The camera angle is shaky but Daryl thinks it might look like a bite mark.

He hears growling.

"Tricia? Tricia?! What's going on?"

The line cuts out.

"What the Hell just happened?" the news anchor demands.

"Joe, I'm getting in some audio from Tricia's cameraman."

"Play it!"

"Oh my God…I…Joe, I -."

"Tricia, if you can hear us, we can hear you. Describe what's happening, we lost video."

There are more screams, the likes of which remind Daryl of the people trapped in burning cages in Hell. It's a helpless, hopeless sound. "There's a man here… Oh, my God. Joe, it looks like there's a sick man here, he's… Oh God, he's _eating_ people!"

"Just one?" Joe presses. Daryl can see him on the screen. He's pale and wide-eyed.

"No, no, almost a dozen. Oh my God, we have to get out of here! Come on, Nate -."

"Ah, fuck –!"

The feed abruptly cuts out and Daryl stands, turning off the television as the camera centers itself back on Joe, who's breathing hard and looks close to panic.

The room is silent for a long, long moment, and then Daryl lets out a low curse. "The fucking _cull_ ," he snarls, and grabs the burner phone Rick gave him and dials the number.

"Daryl?" Rick asks, voice agitated and low. "I told you not to call me."

"Where are you?" Daryl demands.

"None of your fuckin' business is where -."

"Rick, it's _started,_ " Daryl says, cutting him off before Rick can get on any more of his nerves. "The…there are fuckin' dead people walkin' around and killing people. In New York. I just _saw_ it."

"What, like in a vision?"

"No, on the fuckin' _news_ , you asshole."

Rick is silent for a moment. Then, Daryl hears very quietly; "Lori, turn on the news." Daryl hears him walking, he sounds far away like he's holding the phone down at his side. After another moment, Rick raises the phone again and lets out a quiet, annoyed sound. "There's nothing on the news about that."

"I just _saw_ it!" Daryl replies, looking at the still-glowing grey of the television screen. "They showed it. Which channel are you watching?"

"Goodbye, Daryl," Rick says, and hangs up before Daryl can protest.

"No, wait – Rick! Damn it!" Daryl hisses, snapping the phone shut. He narrowly resists the urge to throw it against the wall, since this is the only way, for now, that Rick will be able to communicate with him. He set the phone down gently on the table and clenches his fists, growling low and rapping his knuckles against the table.

Without a vehicle, he's stuck here. He can't go to Rick. He's mortal now, he really shouldn't go outside either. He can't influence any mortal to see things his way, he can't call Rick because Rick probably won't pick up. He needs to wait for Gabrielle and hopefully she can explain all this mess.

Above all things, Daryl has always hated being static. It picks at his skin like a bird, pecking away at his head and making him restless and jittery. He has to go to Rick, has to protect him – but how in the Hell can he do that, when he's barely able to protect himself anymore?

He turns the television back on. The program has changed, waiting for the time when the six o'clock news starts.  He waits for any sign, _anything_ , that what he saw was real. Nothing comes up. The news anchors are different and don't speak of New York.

 

 

 

"Daryl."

Daryl stirs, flinching from the sound of his name. There's a hand on his arm and he opens his eyes, blinking away the grit of sleep and sees Gabrielle standing over him, her face split into a wide smile. Daryl is sleeping on his stomach, remote still clutched in his hand, but the television is off.

Gabrielle straightens, allowing him to push himself upright and sit on the edge of the bed. His mouth feels tacky on the inside and he's in desperate need of a shower. Gabrielle remains standing, propped up on one leg with her shoulders against the wall, knee bent and foot planted flat next to her other thigh.

She folds her hands across her chest and regards Daryl with a raised eyebrow. "So," she says.

Daryl nods, running a hand through his hair. "So."

"South told me a little of what happened," she continues. "You saw Samael? And Cain?"

"I…I don't know," Daryl replies. "I went to Samael because God showed me a man. This man's soul is…flat. No void. Nothing like I've seen before. And when I went to North and East, they told me it had something to do with Cain and that I should ask Samael. So, I went to _Samael_ and…" Daryl bites his lip and looks towards the television. "And I guess all Hell broke loose."

"Not all of Hell," Gabrielle replies, her smile sad as she follows Daryl's gaze.

Daryl rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Tell me about Cain," he asks, meeting her eyes again. Gabrielle, like Lucifer, is one of the more human-looking angels when she comes down to Earth. Her eyes are a dark brown, her hair bleached blonde at the tips and black at the roots. She curls it and it falls almost all the way down her back. She's dressed in a vaguely country-looking getup, with jean shorts and cowboy boots and a brown suede vest. Daryl thinks she looks ridiculous, but that's just his opinion.

Gabrielle's mouth twists and she looks down at her boots, sighing heavily. "Cain…was one of Adam's sons," she says. "He was the one who first committed murder. Until that point, there was no sin so large, so God didn't know where to put him. He turned to Samael – who was Lucifer at the time – for guidance."

"Why would God need guidance?" Daryl asks, frowning.

Gabrielle shrugs. "Samael knew better than God, what humans were capable of." She sighs and shakes her head. "At that point we didn't really have a concept of Hell. The problem was that, well, we needed somewhere for Abel to go. Abel didn't have sin, so God accepted him into Heaven, but Cain would die eventually, too."

"What happened?"

"God asked Samael for help and Samael took away Cain's ability to take on sin. If he took on sin, you see, then that meant he was capable of redemption, but God didn't want Cain to be able to redeem himself. So, Samael took it away and made his soul -."

"Flat," Daryl finished. "Like a mirror." Just like Rick's.

Gabrielle nods. "Samael laid claim to Cain's line. I guess you could say he bought a stake in the Apocalypse. One of Cain's line would be born and suffer through the end of days."

"Shit," Daryl murmurs. "So, it is real. What I saw."

Gabrielle nods, pressing her lips together. "I received the order from God just before I came down here. I'm meant to lead the horsemen out."

"Great," Daryl says, rubbing his hands over his face. "Then what?"

"Well, Pestilence has already started. You know how he is. He'll make everyone sick, Famine will make everyone hungry, Death and War will…well, you'll see soon enough."

"I don't understand," Daryl says. "This all started with just getting a guy into Heaven. How do I get him into Heaven when Samael holds a contract on his soul?"

Gabrielle smiles. "Well, what happens after the end of the world?" she says.

"The Kingdom of Heaven will come to Earth," Daryl replies.

"Exactly."

Daryl stares at her for a long moment, before he presses his lips together. "So, keep him alive," he says. Gabrielle winks at him. "Okay. Keep one man alive. How hard could that be?"

She grins. "I like your attitude."

"Can you do me a favor?"

"Like what?"

"I'm gonna need a car. And a weapon."

Gabrielle cocks her head to one side, lips pursed in thought. Then she smiles. "I can do you one better," she says, her brown eyes glowing as she calls upon her power. She waves a hand and the door opens and both of them step outside.

Daryl freezes when he sees that the four horsemen are already gathered, ready for Gabrielle to lead the charge. War is in the foreground, his giant red horse pawing at the ground readily. Famine's horse is next to War's, skeletally thin and gnawing at its own reins. Pestilence's white horse is on the other side, calm but twitching, eyes pure white and blank. Then, Death. Death's horse is the smallest, and so pale that it's almost see-through, with a touch of green like the decay of a corpse. The horse is calm, swamped in its master's black robes, and eyes Daryl with a whicker of greeting.

Gabrielle approaches Death's horse and pets its face. "May I?" she asks, and the animal snorts and nods, bowing its head to rub its muzzle against her stomach. Gabrielle smiles and plucks a hair from the horse's mane. She does the same with Famine's horse, and Pestilence's, and War's, until she's holding a single hair from each horse.

She wraps the hairs around her knuckles and makes a fist, and closes the fingers of her other hand around them like she's cracking her knuckles. Then, she jerks them up and out. The hairs change, thickening and darkening, and turn into an object that Daryl recognizes immediately.

It's his crossbow, the one he had when he was alive. He gasps and takes it when Gabrielle hands it to him. The weight is familiar, the way his hands curl around it is something he remembers well. He puts the muzzle of it to the ground and pulls back on the string, grunting when his sore muscles manage to pull it back and lock it in place. He raises it to test the sight, pulling the trigger to release the string. Without an arrow loaded, nothing flies, but he grins when he feels the weapon in his hands, muscle memory and familiarity settling low in his skull.

"Thank you," he breathes.

Gabrielle smiles. In the light of the dawn as the sun breaks, Daryl can see the silhouette of her wings. Gabrielle's wings are brown-gold, normally, but less sharp than Samael's.

Her wings flutter and Daryl sees a feather fall. As soon as the feather separates from the main wing, it takes physical shape and floats down in a single arc of golden brown. Gabrielle grabs it and crushes it in her palm and it becomes like sand. She opens her hand and blows on the sand and Daryl steps back when the sand turns into a motorcycle. It's like his old one but bigger, meaner-looking.  Daryl raises an eyebrow and looks at her.

She shrugs, unapologetic. "It makes a statement," she says. Then, she cocks her head to one side as though listening to something. It must be God's word. Daryl hates that he can't hear it anymore. "We must go," Gabrielle says. As she turns away, her outfit changes into long white robes, a sash of red to commemorate the sacrifice of Christ falling around her shoulders. Her hair shortens, resting at her shoulders now, and her face becomes more angular and masculine.

She takes a horn out of her robes and her fingers curl around it with the same familiarity as Daryl holds his crossbow.

"Godspeed, Gabriel," Daryl says.

She smiles at him. "Godspeed, Lucifer," she replies, and then lifts the horn to her lips and blows a single note. It sounds like a summons to war. The horses rear up, braying loudly, and turn and split into all four corners of the globe. War runs West, Death to the South, Famine goes East, and Pestilence goes North.

Gabriel spreads her wings and disappears from sight with another clear, clarion call. Daryl shivers as he listens to the note fade away. The sky has gotten dark.

He rushes back inside and grabs the rucksack Rick gave him, stuffing his clothes inside. He grabs soap and water bottles from the side of the sink, fills the empty Coke bottle with water as well, and shoves his cigarettes and lighter in the bag. He pulls his vest back on and slings the strap of his crossbow over his shoulder so it lays across his back.

He takes his mended sunglasses and hooks them into the front of his t-shirt, before he grabs the keys to the motel room and as soon as he touches them, they melt into the shape of keys for the motorcycle. He smirks, holding them tightly, and mounts the bike. He knows where Rick is, and he knows what he has to do – most of it, anyway. Enough that he feels the irritation of static suspension melt from his shoulders.

He has to keep Rick Grimes alive while the world goes to shit, and keep him away from Cain and Samael and whatever other bullshit the Apocalypse throws their way.

Sounds simple enough.

 

 

 

Rick Grimes' house is an unassuming place. It sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, a ring of flat road at the end of a series of lanes with a 35 mile-an-hour speed limit and stop signs every block.

Daryl speeds through all of them and comes to a screeching halt in front of the house that East had shown him. It looks…normal. There are lights on in the bushes in front of the door, bright and white and welcoming. There is a little statue of the Virgin Mary on the front lawn underneath the mailbox. The wooden frame of the door is painted white, the door itself a dark red.

Daryl turns off his motorcycle and dismounts the bike, leaving it at the end of the driveway next to Rick's car. There's a kid's bike on the lawn next to it, on its side, one wheel sticking up into the air. The sky is still so dark that it might as well be night, despite the fact that Daryl knows the sun should be up by now.

Daryl lifts his head when the door opens and a kid appears in the door, freezing when he sees Daryl there. Daryl recognizes him from when he first saw him, when he was still Lucifer, running into Rick's arms. The kid can't be more than thirteen, still chubby in the face, his bright eyes matching those of his father perfectly.

He hesitates and, without breaking sightlines with Daryl, calls over his shoulder; "Dad?"

Daryl puts the kickstand down on his bike and grabs the rucksack, holding the top handle and keeping the bag by his leg as he walks up the driveway towards the house. The boy's eyes widen and he steps back, colliding with Rick as he comes to the door.

"Carl, what's -?" Rick goes silent when he sees Daryl approaching. His eyes narrow and he presses his lips together. Daryl comes to a stop in front of the door and Rick glares openly at him and puts a hand on his son's shoulder. "Go on, it's okay. I know this guy."

"No," Daryl says, holding a hand out to stop Carl passing. "Everyone needs to go back inside."

"You got some -." Rick stops, looking down at Carl, and growls softly. "Carl, go get your mother. I'll drive you to school if this takes a while," he says, and Carl nods, still wide-eyed, and goes back into the house.

Rick closes the door behind him and approaches Daryl, jabbing a finger against Daryl's chest. "You got some fuckin' nerve," he growls, pressing hard enough that Daryl winces but resists the urge to step back and give Rick space. "How'd you even find me?"

"I have ways," Daryl replies. "Remember the whole 'Devil' thing?"

"How could I forget," Rick says, shaking his head. "You need to leave me and my family the fuck alone before I -."

"What? You gonna kill me like you did Negan?" Daryl demands. Rick's eyes flash and Daryl can see, for one single second, that Rick is thinking about doing just that. Daryl resists the urge to put his sunglasses on, knowing he'll just see that terrible black flatness of Rick's soul. It's unsettling as Hell. "Rick, _please_. Let's just…fuckin' _talk_ about this. _Calmly_."

"I _am_ calm," Rick growls, and Daryl doesn't need his glasses to tell him that Rick is full of shit.

"Rick, listen to me," Daryl says, and reaches out and puts a hand on Rick's chest. Rick goes tense but doesn't move away, like he senses that this is a challenge for dominance, something that will determine who follows whose lead through the end of the world. Rick put himself in Daryl's bubble and he's not going to be the one to give first. "I've been talking to the angels, those that know anything, anyway. I know you didn't see it – I don't know how you didn't see it – but the Apocalypse _is_ happening. It's happening right now."

"I can't trust anything you say," Rick says. "You're lying to me."

"Why would I lie?" Daryl asks.

"I don't know that part yet. But everyone has a motive. Just 'cause I haven't figured yours out doesn't mean it ain't there."

Daryl grits his teeth and pulls his hand away, fingers curling. "You're a stubborn son of a bitch," he says. If he still had his power this would be so much _easier_. He would be able to show Rick a vision of what he'd seen, in a way where Rick would have to accept it. He looks around and sees other children leaving their houses, some of them escorted, heading towards the bus stop.

He frowns and puts his glasses on. There's a man leaving his house that doesn't have a child with him. Even without his glasses on, Daryl can sense something off about his soul. He's sneezing and coughing into his hands. "Who's that guy?" he asks, gesturing to the man.

Rick growls, clearly aggravated at the change of subject. Daryl wonders just how seriously he's considering slamming the door in Daryl's face and getting his gun. He doesn't seem put off by Daryl's crossbow, or where he found his bike. Probably thinks he stole them.

But he looks where Daryl is pointing, and his expression darkens. The man sees Daryl and Rick staring and his soul swirls with yellow and red. Fear and passion. Daryl's eyes narrow. There's no one else on the street now that he can see, just the man walking slowly away from them, around the circle of road on the sidewalk. Daryl can hear children in the distance as the bus pulls up.

He takes his glasses off and hooks them into the front of his shirt, before he swings his crossbow from over his shoulder and puts the muzzle to the ground, pulling the string back and loading it in one fluid motion. He holds the bow up and aims it at the man's back.

"Woah, what the fuck are you doing?" Rick demands, but before he can reach out and stop Daryl, Daryl pulls the trigger.

Rick's hand knocks the bow and it means his aim is slightly off. Instead of hitting his heart, or as close to it as Daryl could aim, it goes slightly upward and Daryl hears the soft _thud_ , the gasp, the desperate breaths as his punctured lung tries to take in air. He lowers the bow and walks back to his bike, setting the crossbow down on the seat.

"Are you _insane_?" Rick demands, rushing forward. Daryl follows close behind and Rick kneels down next to the man, rolling him onto his back. There's blood in his mouth and he's coughing, gasping up at Rick with sightless eyes.

Daryl's mouth twists, and he kneels down and puts his hands on either side of the man's face. He jerks his hands and snaps the man's neck.

Rick lets go of him like Daryl's touch turned the man's flesh to hot iron. His fingers flex and curl and he looks at Daryl with wide eyes. He almost looks afraid, but Daryl can't tell – he will never be able to tell, not from Rick's soul, at least. "You killed him," he says quietly.

"Pot, kettle," Daryl says, standing and wiping his hands on his shirt. "You should get back. You'll see what I've been tryin' to tell you soon enough."

"I should call for backup," Rick growls, shoving himself to his feet. He circles the man and advances on Daryl but Daryl can't afford to give an inch, and he's faced much more terrifying things than an angry mortal. "I should arrest you and throw you in the deepest, darkest hole I can find."

"I've seen deeper and darker, I promise," Daryl replies. He turns so that he can keep the dead man in his periphery.

Rick blinks at him, anger darkening his gaze, making his jaw clench and his nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath. "You need to leave me and my family the fuck alone," Rick says. "Devil, ex-Devil, even if you were fuckin' God himself I wouldn't listen to a word you say."

"If I leave, you and your family will _die_ ," Daryl hisses, stepping forward and jabbing a finger against Rick's chest. "You hear me? Your boy, your wife, everyone you've ever known and loved will get ripped to shreds and burn in Hellfire!"

"You threatenin' me?" Rick demands, shoving Daryl back and Daryl goes for a few, stumbling steps. He straightens up just in time for Rick's fist to connect with his jaw, sending him to his knees. Rick doesn't press the advantage, just steps back, hissing and rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. Daryl grunts and turns his head to one side, spitting a wad of bloody saliva onto the ground and pushing himself to his feet.

"You done?" Daryl mutters, cradling his jaw.

Rick glares at him. "Could just as easily not be," he says, voice low. Aggressive. If he were built like any other man, his soul would be ablaze with wrathful fire, Daryl is sure of that.

Daryl straightens and Rick grabs his pistol from the holster sitting at his thigh. It's not standard issue for police, but his personal one. The pistol is large, a pretty .45 that gleams. Rick's hand fits against it like Daryl's to his crossbow, like Gabriel's to her horn.

Rick levels the gun at Daryl's forehead. His hand doesn't shake.

"Leave, _now_ ," he demands, and pulls the hammer back.

Daryl opens his mouth to argue further, before he goes still when he hears a groan. Rick freezes as well and looks at the man, lowering his gun. He's on his back, off-kilter with his legs sprawled out across the little patch of green between sidewalk and curb. He's moving.

"What…?" Rick breathes, taking a step back. "He's – you killed him. I saw you kill him."

The man sits up with another groan. His eyes are wide and white and blank, blood still pooling out from his mouth and the wound in his back from Daryl's arrow. His head is cocked slightly to one side, just a _little_ off, enough to bare the side of his neck and show where his bones snapped and are sitting out of place.

Daryl looks behind him, cursing when he sees his bow still sitting on his bike, close enough to run for but not quite close enough to grab. He takes a step back and the dead man's eyes snap to him. The man snarls, baring red teeth, and starts to crawl towards them both.

"Shoot him," Daryl urges. Rick presses his lips together and takes aim, one bullet going into the man's back as he starts to gather speed. "In the head, Rick!" The sound of the bullets firing ricochets through the otherwise silent suburb, but Rick's second shot ends up in the man's skull and he collapses.

Daryl raises his glasses to his eyes because he can't resist looking. He gasps. The void inside of the man is gone, his normal soul completely destroyed and long-fleeing the mortal coil, but he's not empty like corpses should be.

He _shines_.

It's the purest gold that Daryl has ever seen. It's the color of the chips that Lucifer bets with when he plays cards with Jesus and Metatron. It's the color of Samael's wings. It's the color of the souls when they used to shine under that lake of ice. It's fading, the life leaching out of him for the final time, but Daryl can see it there as the body starts to cool.

"What _was_ that thing?" Rick demands. Daryl lowers his glasses and looks at him. Rick is pale, his forehead shining with sweat. He looks about two seconds away from throwing up, his eyes wide and his shoulders heaving with unsteady breaths.

Daryl presses his lips together. "The first of many," he says. He can't hear children anymore, or cars. He can't really hear much of anything. If anyone is still in the houses around Rick's, they're not coming outside to investigate. The man's body gives no new blood from the holes in it, like all of that disappeared with his soul. "Will you let me inside now?"

Rick nods, looking over his shoulder. Daryl sees the curtains twitch. "Yeah. I'll open the garage so you can put your bike in."

"Great," Daryl says, and walks the bike up the driveway when Rick opens his car and presses on the garage door opener. The innards of the garage are densely lined with boxes, old pieces of wood, and various other things that hinted at projects half-started and half-attempted. There's enough room, barely, for him to walk his bike inside and let it stand upright.

Rick closes the garage door behind them both and worms his way past Daryl in the tight space, before he opens the side door and lets Daryl into the kitchen. It's a pretty, pristine room, with light wooden cabinets and laminate floors and dark granite countertops.

"Dad, what's going on?" Carl asks, coming into view from what looks like the living room. Daryl can hear the television playing.

"Lock all the doors and windows," Rick tells him. "You're staying home today."

"Rick, what's happening?"

It's a female voice, and Daryl sets his crossbow down on the kitchen island counter just in time for a slim woman to appear behind Carl. Daryl remembers Rick talking to a 'Lori'. The combination of the golden wedding ring on her finger and the look of total suspicion she levels Daryl's way identifies her pretty quickly as Rick's soon-to-be-ex-wife.

"Carl, go!" Rick demands, making the boy jump and hurry to obey. Rick sets his gun down next to Daryl's bow and runs his hands through his hair. "Lori, has Shane called?"

"Why would Shane call me?" Lori asks, flippant and curt.

Rick regards her for a moment. "We gonna do this now?" he asks, markedly soft.

Daryl doesn't need his glasses to sense the swirl of guilt in Lori's soul. She reeks of it. She presses her lips together and, eyes flashing to Daryl, shakes her head. "He hasn't called me," she says, and rests her hand on the doorframe. "What's happening?"

"I…don't know," Rick murmurs, and looks to Daryl. "I didn't see anything about it. _Anythin'_."

"Maybe it'll show now," Daryl says. After all, Gabriel and the horsemen are on the move now. It will have spread already, through the hospitals, the graveyards, the fortresses full of sickness and the plague. Soon it will overtake everything.

"Turn on the news," Rick tells Lori, and she nods and goes back into the living room. Daryl moves to follow but Rick grabs him by the front of his vest and shoves him against the wall where the door to the garage opens. Daryl grunts, wincing at the force of the impact of his shoulders against the wall, and presses his lips together when Rick catches and holds his gaze.

"You're gonna speak when spoken to," he says, whisper-quiet and deadly. "I don't wanna hear anythin' about bein' the Devil, or the horsemen, or any of this shit until I figure out what's goin' on. And that means not tellin' my family either."

"What will I be, then?" Daryl asks, "If not the Devil?"

Rick glares at him for a moment, before he lets him go. "I guess what you are," he says. "A man with no family, no home, and nowhere else to go."

Daryl sighs through his nose and nods, until Rick nods back, apparently satisfied, and leads the way into the living room. Daryl follows.

"We're getting increasingly disturbing reports of outbreaks happening all over the nation. Our reporters in the sky are saying there's mass panic, rioting and looting, and, of course, the unexplainable sight of the dead rising and attacking anything on sight."

"I want to warn you that this is a live feed, and the images here may be graphic and disturbing. Gary, play what we have."

Lori gasps audibly as the camera feed cuts to a view from what looks like a helicopter. It's pointing down on the streets of a densely packed city. There are cars on fire along the edges of the streets and floods of people crowding every available area. There's no sound.

The camera zooms in just in time to show a woman falling prey to a vicious attack from a group of people half-dead and walking just like the man had been on Rick's sidewalk. Lori turns her face away so she doesn't watch the woman get eaten.

Daryl's hands are shaking as he takes his glasses and puts them up to his face. He's not sure if it will work through television, but -.

"Holy _Hell_ ," he whispers.

The gold fills the streets like arteries and veins in a living being. It pulses and writhes like a snake missing its head – directionless, fathomless. There's more than he remembers seeing below the lake, spread far and wide and he realizes, abruptly, that not only has that layer of Hell been gathering its powers for a long time, but there are the other circles to draw from.

Heaven only has one.

He takes his glasses off, unable to bear the sight of so much vibrant color, brasher yellowy fear and red anguish and mossy greed. He can't stomach looking at it for a moment longer. Samael's stain is everywhere, faster than Daryl would have thought possible. Herded by the horseman and heralded by Gabriel, the Apocalypse has officially begun.

"Where was that?" Lori asks, meek and afraid.

"New York," Rick replies, pressing his lips together. He looks at Daryl, anger and suspicion and a thousand other emotions flashing across his face in a single second. Carl barrels back into view, breathing heavily and bright eyed and Lori hurriedly changes the channel to SpongeBob reruns and wipes frantically at her eyes.

"I need to call Shane," she says, standing.

"Tell him to bring guns and supplies," Rick says with a nod. Then he looks at Daryl as though Daryl is an inconveniently-placed trinket that he isn't sure what to do with. "Carl, you lock all the windows and doors?"

"Yes, dad."

"Good. You're gonna stay right where me or your mom can see you, okay?"

"Okay," Carl replies meekly. Daryl hasn't been around a child in as long as he can remember. Children don't go to Hell, although sometimes they end up in the first circle and like to play chase with Minos' tail.

Daryl huffs, sighing through his nose, and winces when his jaw aches as he clenches his teeth. "You got some frozen peas or somethin'?" he asks, gesturing to his bruised jaw where Rick struck him. He's going to have to get used to aching and feeling pain like a mortal, now. That one free pass down to the lake was just that – a single free pass. Cerberus will likely not let him through a second time, now that he has no Hell to be loyal to.

_Hell is empty, and all the Devils are here._

Rick nods stiffly and jerks his head so that Daryl leads the way to the kitchen. Rick stays in the doorway so he can keep an eye on his son, his arms crossed and his back braced against the doorframe. Daryl reaches into the fridge and digs out a bag of frozen vegetables and gingerly presses the edge to his face. The cold bites into his fingers and reminds him of the last circle of Hell and he resists the urge to put it back.

"They're still playing cartoons," Rick says quietly when Daryl falls into place beside him. He sounds almost awed. "All that chaos and they're still…"

Daryl doesn't say anything. Then, Lori comes back. She stutters to a halt, cell phone in hand, and her eyes flash at seeing Daryl and Rick standing so close together. The stink of envious, jealous love is sharp coming from her soul. Despite the divorce, despite her guilt, she apparently still loves Rick – or at least, desires him enough to be possessive.

Daryl thinks about what he would do if hers was a soul he had marked for reaping. It would be so easy, to come to Rick when he's less on edge and maybe with some liquor in him, to press himself close and say all the right things. If Rick's soul was normal, Daryl would know exactly what to say, how to twist him and corrupt him and steal him away, until Lori's jealousy and disgust overwhelmed her and she committed a kind of sin that stood no chance of redemption.

"Shane's on his way," she says instead of anything else she wants to say. She steps forward and worms her way between Rick and Daryl, forcing Daryl to take a step back and Rick to turn. She puts a hand on his chest, over his heart. "Rick, what are we gonna tell Carl?"

"Whatever we have to, I guess," Rick replies. He doesn't seem to welcome Lori's touch, but he doesn't shrug it away either. "I haven't really thought that far ahead."

Lori blinks, and then looks over her shoulder to regard Daryl. She lets Rick go and plasters on a bright smile. "I'm sorry, we didn't get a chance to be properly introduced. I'm Lori, Rick's _wife_."

Daryl smiles at her, the same smile he wore as Lucifer to charm the innocents closer. "Daryl," he replies, and takes her offered hand and kisses her knuckles. She goes tense, surprised at the action, and when Daryl lets her hand go it flops limply at her side.

"And…you are…?"

"A mighty good shot and lacking any moral objection to putting an arrow in every single undead walker I find," Daryl finishes, his grin widening when her eyes flash and her jaw clenches. It's not the answer she's driving at, but until she asks directly Daryl will have plenty of fun batting at her like a cat with a toy.

He hears Rick let out a low growl of warning, but ignores it.

"We'll need to get away from Atlanta," Rick finally says, straightening and moving from the doorway into the kitchen so they're not all packed in the threshold. "Far away, from any major city. Until they find a cure for this thing."

"A cure for being dead," Daryl adds lightly. "That's a new one. Only one guy I know has that power."

"You shut your mouth," Rick snaps, glaring at Daryl. As if it's _Daryl's_ fault that the world is ending. Well, technically, it might be. His head hurts.

Daryl's eyes fall to his crossbow and Rick's gun, sitting on the countertop. "You got any more weapons?" he asks.

"I have another pistol with ammo in my room, and we have knives and…shit, gardening tools. That's about it."

"What about your neighbors?"

"Probably," Rick says.

Daryl nods. "I'll go get 'em."

"Our neighbors?" Lori asks, eyes wide.

"No," Rick says, shaking his head as Daryl reaches for his bow. Rick's hand snaps out and closes around his wrist, bruising with how tight his grip is. "I'm not letting you go out and _rob_ our friends of whatever weapons they have to defend themselves."

"You gonna stop me?" Daryl challenges.

"If I have to," Rick replies coldly.

"Look," Daryl growls, pulling his hand away. Rick lets him do it. "It's us or them now, Rick. If you wanna keep your family alive, you gotta be willin' to do what it takes. Ain't like I'm askin' ya to kill anyone."

"We take their weapons and food, they're as good as dead," Rick says.

Daryl's eyes flash to Lori. He remembers Rick demanding he not give away who he is, but it's getting to the point where he can see the desperate need to know burning in her eyes. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, and pulls the bag of frozen food from his jaw. He puts it back in the freezer.

"Who the fuck _are_ you?" Lori demands, breathless and quiet.

Daryl hesitates.

"Don't," Rick says.

"I'm…"

" _Don't_ ," Rick demands.

"I'm just someone who wants to make sure you all get out of here alive," Daryl finally says. Rick lets out a quiet breath, like he'd been holding it.

"And why do you care about any of us?" Lori demands.

 _I don't_. "Because I know you," Daryl says. "You're good people. You…deserve to be saved. You deserve to make it." He looks to Rick. "And if you're not willin' to go into the moral grey bullshit that comes with it, I am. I'm willin' to."

Lori regards him coolly, anger and fear warring on her face. "I want you out of my house," she says, folding her arms across her chest. Daryl's fingers twitch.

"We can't let him leave," Rick says. "He'll just do what he's plannin' to anyway."

"And he can do it far away from here," Lori finishes with a single nod of her head.

" _No!_ " Rick says, slamming his hand down on the counter. It doesn't make a loud sound but the force of it makes Lori startle, her eyes widening as she lets her hands fall. _Wrath_. "No. He's staying _right here_ where I can keep a Goddamn eye on him."

"What is the _matter_ with you?" Lori demands. "I told you -."

"I don't give a shit. I just…fuck, I just need to think. I -." Rick rubs both hands through his hair and shakes his head vehemently, like a horse ridding itself of a fly. " _Fuck_."

"Are you fucking my husband?" Lori says, her eyes flashing to Daryl. She puts her hands on her hips and Daryl imagines she's trying to be intimidating.

He cocks his head to one side and smirks, shaking his head. "Trust me, I think he'd rather put a bullet in me than a dick," he says. Rick glares at him and rubs his hand over his face. "Can I go somewhere to smoke? I'm gettin' the twitches."

Rick huffs a frustrated breath. "The garage," he says, and Daryl nods and heads that way. Rick follows immediately after and, at Daryl's questioning looks, adds; "I told you, I'm not lettin' you outta my sight. For all I know you're gonna go rob my neighbors anyway and just usin' this as an excuse."

Daryl smiles. "Look at us, already anticipating each other's actions," he says warmly. He steps out into the garage and makes a little space for himself by his bike, propped up against an old work bench. He takes a cigarette out and lights it with Rick's lighter. "You know, treatin' me like a maggot in your food isn't gonna get us anywhere."

"If it weren't for you, none of this would be happening," Rick says accusingly.

Daryl glares at him, blowing a breath of smoke deliberately at Rick's face. Rick growls and bats the smoke away. "If it wasn't me, God would'a sent someone else," he says. "If your soul wasn't the way it is, no one would'a been sent. If Samael didn't take my power from me, I would have fought him and tried to keep you out of it. If Cain hadn't killed Abel, souls like yours wouldn't exist. If Samael didn't hold the contract on Cain, this wouldn't have happened. I could go on and on." He took another drag. "Forcing this into a linear storyline ain't gonna get shit done."

"Samael? _Cain_?" Rick repeats, throwing his arms up in the air. "Are you just deliberately trying to piss me off by name-dropping now?"

Daryl rolls his eyes. "Samael is the original Devil," he says, flicking a little piece of ash from the end of his cigarette. "The one who was the snake in Eden, the one that fell from Grace during the first War of Heaven and Hell. Cain is…well, I'd hope you knew who Cain was." He takes another drag. It's not calming him down like it normally does. "You know what's ironic? You were meant to be my ticket outta here."

Rick cocks his head to one side, frowning. He doesn't look as angry but Daryl can still smell it on him, as thick as if Rick soaked himself in it. Wrath smells like cooking meat, like chili powder, like capsaicin. He takes in a deep breath and ducks his gaze.

"My job was – and still is – to get you into Heaven," Daryl says quietly, like he's trying to placate a dog that's only just stopped growling at him. "When I do that, God will take the title of Lucifer away from me. He'll give it to someone else."

"I don't understand," Rick says. "You don't want the job?"

Daryl shakes his head. "When I was…dying. I was dying, and a man appeared to me with Death at his side. He was the Lucifer before me, and he offered me the job and I took it because I was stupid and I thought…Hell, I thought maybe it meant I wouldn't go to Hell myself. Ruling a place isn't the same as being a subject there, you know?" He sighs and takes a pull from the cigarette deep enough to make him cough and burn it down to the butt. He throws it to the ground and crushes it under his shoe. "As soon as I felt the power in me, I wanted to give it away. But there was no one to give it to, and I didn't know how."

"So you made a deal," Rick says. "With God. To take it away."

Daryl nods, pressing his lips together. He ducks his gaze and puts his eyes on the garage door. "I sinned when I was alive," he says. "I think…I think envy was the worst. The worst of what I did, or whatever, probably would'a ended up there."

"What were you envious of?" Rick murmurs.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "Don't really remember much of my human life," he replies, and he isn't sure if Rick knows he's lying and is too polite to call him out on it, or doesn't care enough to push further. Or maybe he can't tell – maybe Daryl is a better liar than he's ever given himself credit for. "But my point is that…bein' the Devil, it ain't like you're born for it, or you gotta be a bad person to get the job. I was just in the right place at the right time."

He presses his lips together and sighs. "You can blame me," he says. "For the Apocalypse, for fuckin' up your less-than-stellar life. You can hate me. But one way or another I'm makin' sure you live through this 'cause it ain't just about you anymore, you get me?"

Rick regards him for a long moment. The anger in him seems to have calmed, thawed from the icy rage that had been in his eyes and the set of his jaw. He's not calm, not completely, but it seems like he's at least willing to listen to what Daryl has to say.

Finally, he sighs, and rubs a hand over his mouth. "Okay," he says and Daryl looks up to meet his gaze. "Okay. I'm sorry, I -." He shakes his head. "I guess you'd know better'n anyone that I have a…problem. With anger. And I don't blame you for tryin' to get out of your shitty situation."

Daryl huffs and manages a smile. Rick returns it, almost sheepish and guilty. Daryl can smell the slight lemony scent of guilt. He straightens up and pauses when he hears the sound of a car. Then, the garage door opens and reveals a giant black pickup truck. A memory flashes in front of Daryl's eyes, like a dream on top of a dream. The truck reminds him of his brother's. He had a _brother_. He's probably dead by now, though. Maybe dead and walking.

The truck stops and a man steps out. He carries himself like a soldier, his hair is fluffy and a dark brown. He's more muscular than Rick, and taller. Daryl flinches at the shaft of light that comes in through the garage, throwing it into gleaming, vibrant light despite the dust and cobwebs on almost every surface.

"Shane," Rick says, both in greeting and introduction, and comes forward to hug the other man. They embrace tightly, faces at each other's shoulders, fingers clutching tightly to each other's backs. Daryl cocks his head to one side and puts on his sunglasses.

Shane's soul is _ablaze_ with red. It's not anger, it doesn't contain the edge of black that means malice. Instead, it's mixed with the pale yellow that Daryl has always associated with joy. Shane _loves_ Rick, deeply and passionately. Rick's soul is as flat and black as it always is but Daryl can sense the emotion returned from Rick, even if his soul doesn't reflect it.

Shane pulls back and holds Rick's face, he hasn't even noticed Daryl standing there. "Are you okay? Lori? Carl?" he asks.

Rick nods and moves away and Shane finally sees Daryl. His soul dulls a little, swirling and suspicious, but not nearly as bad as Lori's had been. A flicker of green passes through before Rick touches Shane's shoulder and it's gone.

"This is Daryl," Rick says. "He's the one who came to warn me. I used him to consult on a case."

"…Okay," Shane replies, still clearly not buying the bullshit Rick is selling, but then he plasters a thousand-watt smile on his face and holds out his hand to Daryl as Rick closes the garage door. Daryl puts his sunglasses away and shakes Shane's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Wish it was under better circumstances," Daryl replies.

Shane nods and lets his hand go, letting out a disbelieving noise, his eyes wide. "Did you see it?" he asks. "I saw Robertson out there, sorry son of a bitch."

"Yeah, we saw it. New York's up in flames," Rick replies, leading the way back into the kitchen. Daryl and Shane follow, and as soon as Lori sees Shane she rushes to him, throwing herself into his arms. Daryl looks away and spies Rick watching them. He looks angry again, but there's absolutely no jealousy or possessiveness about it. He frowns and resists the urge to reach for his glasses again. They wouldn't help him anyway.

"Where's Carl?" Shane asks when he sets Lori down. Lori clears her throat, glaring at Daryl as though daring him to speak, and stands close to Shane with a hand on his arm.

"Watching T.V.," Rick replies. "Cartoons or whatever. Not the news."

"What did you bring?" Lori asks.

"I raided all my shit, packed whatever food I have, sorry amount that it was."

Daryl clears his throat. "I was thinkin' we should go search the houses," he suggests. "Create a stockpile."

" _No_ ," Rick growls. "We're not robbing our neighbors, we're not leaving them without food or weapons to defend themselves when it reaches us."

"We should move," Shane says, as though in agreement. "We can go to your folks' cabin or somethin'. It's remote, hard to get to, and there's plenty of ways we can shore up. We can go through…I don't know, fuckin' Costco or some shit if it comes to supplies."

"We shouldn't go anywhere commercial," Daryl says. "That's where people will loot first when the panic sets in."

"Right," Shane says, nodding in agreement.

"We can hole up at the cabin first and wait," Daryl suggests. "We have enough food for a few days. After that, the initial wave should have died down and we can figure out what the fuck to do from there."

"Okay," Lori murmurs. "Okay…"

"Lori, you and Shane start packing clothes. Food, blankets, anything we might need. We'll pack Shane's truck, and take the car and Daryl's bike for mobility. Have Carl go to his room and pack some stuff. Make it…make it sound like we're taking a trip, or something."

Shane and Lori nod, hurrying away to obey Rick's orders. Daryl regards him, eyebrows rising when he sees Rick grab his gun. "And what are _we_ gonna be doin', then?" he asks.

Rick looks at him, his expression stony. "We're gonna go raid Robertson," he says. "Dead man doesn't need guns."

" _Just_ Robertson?" Daryl asks, grabbing his crossbow and following Rick as he heads back through the garage and out. As soon as they're out Rick leans back into his car and presses the button to close it again. Rick straightens up and fixes him with a warning look.

"…For now," he says.

Daryl smirks. "For now."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit shorter because otherwise it would be like 15k, and I'm not that far ahead!!! Enjoy!
> 
> CW for implied dude creeping on kids and inferred mild homophobia.

Daryl follows Rick outside, crossbow held ready in case any of the other neighbors have turned while they were in the house. He doesn't see any, but he knows Rick is in just as high a state of alert. They pass by the corpse of Rick's neighbor and Rick leads Daryl up to his house. He tries the handle but it's locked.

Rick sighs, stepping back. "We could try the -." But Daryl doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before Rick brings his foot up and kicks at the door in one solid strike. He does it again and the door cracks in around the handle, splintering it and making the door swing inward with a high-pitched creak.

Daryl raises an eyebrow. "They teach you that when you train to be a cop?"

"There's some extracurriculars."

Daryl blinks at Rick. "Did you…did you just make a joke?"

"What? I can joke," Rick says, pushing the door in and stepping inside.

The inside is similarly laid out to Rick's house, but not as nicely furnished. Daryl finds himself drawn to the living room and blanches at the stench of sin inside. "Did this guy have any family?" he asks, going over to the man's television. There are stacks and stacks of cassette tapes next to it and he thumbs at them absently. They look homemade, names written on them in a loose scrawl.

Rick shakes his head. "One of the only single people on the street," he replies. "Why?"

"Let's just say I think there's a reason he chose a place with so many kids," Daryl replies. Rick pauses and walks over to him so that he can see the names as Daryl traces his fingers across them. Words like "Timmy – Park", "Robin – Walking", "Jackson – Bedroom" are written across it. Rick's face goes dark with anger.

"That son of a bitch," he growls, and grabs a video. It has Carl's name on it – "Carl – Bus Stop". Rick's fingers hold the tape so hard that the plastic starts to crack. "If I could kill him all over again, I would." He looks at Daryl. "Did you know? Is that why you shot him?"

Daryl shakes his head. "I don't know specifics, when I see sin," he says. "Gluttony looks the same whether it's gambling, drinking, overeating… But I knew something was off about him. His soul was slick with it."

Rick growls and sets the tape down. "When we leave, we're burning this place to the ground," he says, before he holsters his weapon. "Come on. Let's find out if there's anything here worth grabbing."

Daryl nods and heads to the kitchen while Rick takes the upper floor, searching for weapons and bedding they can use. There isn't a lot of food in the fridge, mostly beer and harder alcohol, but the cabinets are full of – he shudders – snacks and non-perishables that he would associate with having children. Cheez-Its and Nilla Wafers and pudding cups. He wonders if Rick ever trusted this man with babysitting Carl. If Lori might have allowed it.

He grabs what he deems edible and places it on the counter. By the time Rick returns he has a veritable hoard piled up. Rick's eyes flash, like he realizes the same correlation between the tapes and the food. His mouth twists and he lets out another low growl.

"I hope he's burning, wherever he is," Rick says.

"When all this is over, I can make sure of that," Daryl replies. "Before I give away my title."

Rick blinks at him, and nods, something almost like gratitude passing over his face. "Good."

"Did you find anythin'?"

"A few knives and rope, that's it," Rick says, holding up a bag he must have found as well. "There's bedding and shit but…I don't really wanna touch it."

"Understandable," Daryl replies. "We done here, then?"

"Yeah, lemme get another bag for the food."

Daryl nods and waits while Rick gets another bag. They pile all the food into it and all the knives in the kitchen and head back to Rick's house. Rick opens the garage door and shuts it behind them and they add the bags to those already piled in the kitchen from what Shane and Lori managed to find.

Lori and Shane enter as they're finished up putting everything together. "Find anything good?" she asks.

"Some knives, not much else."

"Well, it's better than nothing."

Rick nods in agreement, his eyes on Shane. "Got any other ideas of places we can go before we head up to the cabin?"

Shane shakes his head.

Daryl bites his lower lip. "I…might have an idea," he says. Rick's eyes snap to him and Daryl sends him a meaningful look. "I have friends that might be able to help." Rick frowns and Daryl doesn't break his gaze away, hoping that Rick will understand who, exactly, he's referring to.

Rick's eyes abruptly widen and he turns into Daryl, lowering his voice. "You sure that's wise?" he asks, putting one hand flat and warm on Daryl's arm. "From what you've told me, they got no reason to help you anymore. To help any of us."

"They'll do what God commands them," Daryl replies, his voice a whisper. "And if I can convince God that I need the weapons, they'll obey."

"And how will you get to 'em, huh?" Rick says. He lets Daryl go.

"I'll call Gabriel," Daryl replies. "She'll help."

Rick cocks his head to one side, but Daryl doesn't give him a moment to try and figure out if Daryl means _the_ Gabriel or not. He turns to Lori. "Can I use your guys' phone? Mine got busted a while back."

"Oh. Sure," Lori says, and hands Daryl her cell phone. Daryl smiles and gives a nod of thanks, before he looks to Rick.

"I'll be in the garage," he says, and steps back outside. Rick doesn't follow him this time.

"We should load up the truck," he hears Shane say, and Rick's soft murmur of agreement. They must use the front door to do it, because neither the door to the house nor the main garage door open.

He opens Lori's cell phone. If this is the Apocalypse, then God will have sent down the prophets to guide the righteous to safe havens to wait out the cull. Jesus won't appear just yet, but Daryl used to spend a lot of time with David, one of the great Kings of Israel.

There is only one place David would go when he returned to Earth, before his task is to start. Daryl presses his lips together and, after a brief Google search on Lori's phone, dials the phone number for the tourist center located at the bottom of Mount Gilboa, where Jonathan died.

The phone rings for a long time, but Daryl doesn't hang up. Eventually a man answers, speaking low and in swift Arabic that Daryl, without the powers of Lucifer helping him, doesn't understand. But this kind of contract doesn't rely on language barriers.

"How have the mighty fallen," he says into the phone.

Silence greets him, before; "And the weapons of war perished." The voice is softer now, the accent strong but he's speaking English now, at least. "Lucifer?"

Daryl smiles. "Good to see you still remember me," he says. "What are you doing there, David? There's nothing for you there."

"I had hoped, maybe, with the dead rising…" He doesn't finish. Daryl understands. Perhaps Jonathan would have risen as well. But Jonathan is resting peacefully in the Kingdom of Heaven, where Samael cannot touch or summon his soul to this dreadful place.

"Will you do something for me?" Daryl asks.

"What do you need?"

"I need to speak with Gabriel. It's a long story, but I can't summon her myself. And you're the only one I knew would be where you are."

He hears David laugh. "There's always something to do," he says. "But yes, I will summon Gabriel to you. Where should I tell him to go?"

Daryl winces. It will be a shock to David when he sees Gabriel as she is now: Gabrielle in her ridiculous cowgirl getup. If she's still wearing that. Maybe she has reverted back to her original presence, where she goes as a masculine figure to spread the word and herald the coming of war. "If she can get to me in the next hour, tell her I'm at Rick's house – she'll know what I mean. If not…we're heading to a cabin. I'm not sure where. But she should be able to find me."

"I'll do what I can," David replies.

"Thank you, David. I owe you one. Peace be with you."

"And also with you," David says, and Daryl smiles at the older response. Of course, David hasn't had to keep up with the times. David hangs up and Daryl ends the call as well, drawing the ichthys across the screen, and deletes the Google search history and the call history so that Lori won't have access to the number.

He goes back into the garage and almost collides with Rick as he opens the door. Rick freezes and takes a step back to give him room. "We're pretty much all set," he says.

Daryl nods, and hands Lori her phone back when she comes into the room. "Alright. At this point we just need to wait. But we can move, too. My friend'll find me."

"How?" Lori demands, frowning. "I don't want strangers showing up at -."

"Lori, it's fine," Rick says. "Anyone good enough for Daryl is good enough for me."

Daryl can feel his own shock mirrored on Lori's face. Not that he doesn't appreciate Rick trusting him, but he definitely didn't expect it either. Then Lori's eyes darken and Daryl doesn't need his glasses to know her soul is flaring with chaotic jealousy.

"They won't go to the cabin," Daryl says, trying to placate her. "I didn't tell them about it. We'll meet her on route."

"How many?" Shane asks.

"I think it'll just be her. She might bring her brother. But they have their own places to go, they won't bother us. I promise."

Shane presses his lips together and eyes Rick for a moment. "You vouchin' for him, brother?" he asks.

Rick nods, and replies without hesitation; "As much as I'd vouch for you."

That, it seems, is enough for Shane. He nods and rubs a hand over his mouth. "Alright, shit," he says. "Well, truck's loaded. If you guys think we're all set we should head out before the shit really hits the fan."

"Right," Rick says, nodding. He grabs his gun and Daryl puts his crossbow across his back as Lori goes into the living room to grab Carl. Carl is wide-eyed and so young looking, he can't possibly be older than thirteen years old. He still has the puppy fat of childhood in his face and around his stomach.

"What's going on?" he asks, and notices Daryl and looks at him with wide, shocked eyes. "Who are you?"

"He's a friend of your dad's," Lori says sweetly, patting him on the head. "You all packed and ready to go?"

"Yeah," Carl replies hesitantly.

"Alright, let's move out," Rick says, and Daryl can hear the impatience in his voice. He wants to wait, to demand they wait for Gabriel since she would be able to provide advice and help, but he knows he can't do that without giving away who, exactly, he was. Which Rick forbade. And Daryl can't afford to tread on any toes when the state of the Apocalypse is so new and unknown.

So, he goes to his bike and turns it on, mounting it in one quick motion. Shane rides in his truck, and Rick, Lori, and Carl pile into Rick's vehicle. Daryl pulls out first, putting his sunglasses on, both to shield his eyes and so that he'll more easily be able to catch the presence of gold in the distance or hiding in the trees.

Rick follows him and Shane pulls up the rear and they head out of the suburban area. News obviously hasn't travelled this far, people are either at work or out running errands, so the way is reasonably clear as they get out of the neighborhood.

When they reach the place where the slow roads turn to highway, Daryl falls back and rides at Rick's window until Rick rolls it down. "I don't know where we're goin'," Daryl yells over the roar of his engine. Gabriel really packed a punch with the thing.

Rick frowns. "Don't we need to meet your friend somewhere?"

Daryl shakes his head. "She'll find us," Daryl replies, and Rick's eyes narrow before he nods in understanding, and then gestures towards the road.

"Get on I-75, take it North, 'til we hit 575. Keep headin' North until you hit Jasper, then we're going East on 136."

Daryl raises an eyebrow. "Amicalola?" he asks.

Rick nods. "There's a camping ground my parents own a cabin at. That's where we're goin'."

Daryl sighs and nods, taking the lead again with a single rev from the motorcycle's powerful engine. The roads are relatively clear, nothing worthier of note than standard mid-morning traffic. Daryl wonders what day it is. It's obviously a weekday, since Carl was meant to go to school, but he's not sure which one it's supposed to be. Rick had managed to go to Virginia and back without missing work, but cops are shift workers and don’t always work a standard nine-to-five.

It's when they hit the interstate that, as Shane had said, shit hits the fan.

Daryl slows with a curse and kills the engine on his bike, propping it up and swinging his bow to a ready position in his hands. Behind him, Rick and Shane stop their vehicles as well. There's been a crash up ahead, an oil tanker jackknifed and is now blocking three of the four lanes. There are some cars slow crawling their way around – or trying to – but Daryl can hear the snarls and growls of the undead and the screams of people up ahead.

"What the shit happened here?" Shane asks, coming forward on Rick's other side when Rick appears to Daryl's left.

"Crash," Daryl grunts in reply. He puts the muzzle of his bow to the ground and pulls the string back, sliding an arrow in place. "People died, turned, ate, turned more."

"So, it's not just a fucked-up flu virus or something," Shane breathes.

"It's the dead rising," Rick says. "That's what I've heard."

"How the fuck is that even possible?"

Daryl opens his mouth to reply, but is stopped when he sees, behind his glasses, a bright light shines from the point of the sky where it arcs up at its highest above them. He winces, shielding his eyes from the sun, and watches as it falls in a ball of bright red and orange. It's falling, and it looks like it's falling straight for them.

He grabs Rick's arm. "Get in the car," he demands, and Rick looks up but of course he can't see what Daryl sees. Daryl shoves at them both. "Get in the fucking cars! We have to turn back."

Rick stumbles, but obeys, and Shane scrambles back towards his car just as the falling light hits the road and disappears behind the truck. Daryl stumbles to one knee, catching himself with his free hand, and gasps from the force of the shockwave. It's powerful enough to send the oil tanker flying towards them, crashing over the cars that are densely packed a few rows thick and coming to a stop before they reach Daryl and the others.

Daryl stumbles to his feet and Rick and Shane approach. "The fuck was that?" Rick asks. But there's no time to answer him. Daryl sees the heavy arc of red and orange flaring behind the crushed, smoking heap of metal. He can hear the snarls of the undead and, now that the tanker is no longer blocking the view, he sees the sea of gold that marks them as Samael's brood.

Daryl's mouth twists and he looks back at Rick. "My friend," he replies.

Rick's eyes widen and he lets go of the bruising grip he'd taken on Daryl's arm. Daryl hauls his bow back up and looks to Rick's car where he can see Lori's and Carl's pale, shocked faces.

Daryl looks back at the chaos on the other side of the cars. He can see the shape of a man, cloaked in light – but not golden like Samael's light. Strange, it's not the normal gentle brown-red of Gabriel, either. It's someone else, someone Daryl hasn't met before.

"Are they…friendly?" Rick asks. Daryl takes his sunglasses off so he can see what Rick sees. It's a man, clad in the kind of armor a black ops strike team would wear. He's a soldier, armed to the teeth and carrying multiple firearms that cling tightly to his body. He has a riot shield protecting his back and a helmet on his head, but the most notable thing about him is the huge, gleaming sword he wields. It's easily larger than any broadsword Daryl has ever seen, and shines as though it's lit on fire. Whenever the man brings it down on a walker, he splits the thing in two and Daryl can smell the stench of burning flesh.

He bites his lower lip. He knows who the man is. "That depends," he answers honestly.

"On what?" Rick demands.

"The time of day? The direction of the wind? I'm not sure. I've never met him before." He nods to the man. "That's Michael. The Archangel."

"The…" Rick shakes his head, taking in a deep breath. "Right. Sometimes I forget this is actually a real thing."

"I have to go help him," Daryl says, and looks at Rick. "Give me a knife and stay in the car."

"I'm not gonna let you just -."

"Rick, the whole point of this is that you stay _alive_ ," Daryl says, and holds out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Rick growls, his shoulders sagging in defeat, and he goes to Shane's truck to pull out the longest knife they have. It's more like a machete than a knife, with a thickly-wrapped red leather handle. It fits nicely in the palm of Daryl's hand and he swings it experimentally, before he smiles. "Thanks."

"Just…just don't fuckin' die," Rick mutters, his hand on his pistol.

Daryl manages a tight smile, before he nods and turns back towards the fight. The numbers of undead are significantly smaller than before, enough that he doesn't fear walking right into the thick of it. He sees a woman as she spots him and lunges at him and he dodges to one side, swinging the machete down to slice it through the top of her head. He uses gravity to yank it back out and aims for another.

He hears Michael laughing. "Lucifer, is that you?"

Daryl grunts, shoving past another walker and putting his back to Michael's. "Surprised you recognize me," he says, and pulls his crossbow around to shoot at a walker from the ring of them Michael has managed to create with his sword. They twist around each other easily, like well-practiced and well-oiled cogs in the same machine. Daryl can turn and duck to shoot under Michael's arm, Michael can turn and slash through a walker with his burning sword when it gets too close to either of them.

Daryl swings his machete through the last one and it goes down with a hiss, clawing at his jeans before it gives up and falls. Daryl yanks the blade back and wipes it on its back, before he goes to retrieve his arrows from the walkers that he'd shot.

He looks back to Michael as Michael removes his helmet. He's taken the form of an Asian man, with wide and sincere brown eyes and a mop of black hair that reaches his cheeks. He's flushed with exertion and smiling widely. Michael has always enjoyed the fight.

"Are you here for me?" Daryl asks, walking back over to Michael.

Michael nods, smiling playfully. He is God's first born, but by far not the most serious of his brothers and sisters. He had played with Samael before humanity was born, he'd been the first to kneel to humans when God told the angels to love them. His entire grace and presence burns with God's joy and life.

"David prayed to Gabriel, but she could not leave her post. Then North felt you approaching, and she summoned me to help."

"So, you know what I intend to ask for."

Michael nods, and looks at his sword. It's still shining with fire, the flames licking along the metal like puppies playing with their master. Daryl hears children's laughter and isn't sure if it's coming from the sword or not.

"I had hoped for better behavior from my brother," he says, his expression almost guilty, like Samael's actions are his fault. "But I suppose it was written to be this way."

"Will you help me?"

Michael regards him for a moment. "Yes," he finally says. "On one condition."

"Name it."

"You are not to harm Samael in any way."

Daryl blinks, his mouth opening in shock. "How can I obey both you and God?" he asks. "When the Kingdom of Heaven comes, he'll be defeated."

"Defeated, yes," Michael says. "You must understand, Lucifer. Samael is my brother, and I loved him before I knew how to love anything else, except my father, of course. So, I cannot in good conscience aid you if I knew that you would end up hurting him because of it."

"I can't promise not to fight him," Daryl murmurs. "But let my life be forfeit if I disobey."

Michael regards him for a long moment, before he nods, apparently satisfied, and in that moment Daryl thinks that Samael must have learned his tricks and deal-making skills from Michael. It had never occurred to Daryl that he might have learned it from someone. Michael reaches his hand out and Daryl clutches his forearm and they shake like that, before Michael lets him go.

"Go to your Haven," Michael says. "I will clear the way for you, and leave what you need there."

"Thank you," Daryl breathes.

"A word of caution, Lucifer," Michael adds, reaching out to gently touch Daryl's cheek. "My brother is, in his heart, a trickster. And he knows what makes men weak as much as any of his successors have. You must remain strong, and do not follow the same path as Cain did."

Daryl bites his lower lip. "Envy," he says.

Michael sighs. "Even angels can feel it, unfortunately," he says, and lets his hand drop. "Perhaps it would be easier if none of us had a soul."

"Taking away the consequences doesn't stop sin," Daryl replies. "Samael proved that in the beginning."

Michael huffs a laugh, and then he straightens and puts the helmet back on his head. "Your mission awaits," he says, and lifts his right hand in a lazy military salute. "Peace be with you, Lucifer."

"And with your Spirit," Daryl replies. He can't see Michael's face anymore, but imagines that Michael is grinning at him. He looks back to see that, strangely, the tanker has rolled and crushed and moved the cars in such a way that it's now clear, just enough space between the guard rail and the wreckage for Shane's truck to make it through.

He sidles through the rest of the cars, grimacing when his foot slides in something very slick and he hopes that it's oil and not some kind of combination of body fluids, when Rick opens the car door and rushes over to him.

"Are you alright?" Rick asks, grabbing Daryl's arms and holding him at arm's length so that he can see if Daryl is wounded.

Daryl huffs. "Fine," he says. "Nothin' to write home about."

Rick lets him go with an aggravated growl. "I couldn't see anything," Rick says. "And then the fuckin'…the _truck_ just went flyin' and I – I didn't know what to do."

"You did the right thing," Daryl says. "Just stay put and let me figure the dangerous shit out."

"That's not gonna happen," Rick mutters, clenching his jaw. "It ain't in me to sit back and let someone else get their hands dirty if they don't have to do it alone."

"And here I thought you hated me," Daryl says, teasing because he can't afford to let Rick into the fray like that. Who knows what might have happened if Michael saw his soul? Michael is righteousness and fire, everything good and wholesome and even with all that, he is the first to feel God's incredible wrath, the first weapon God sent upon the world when He was through with it. Michael is just as much a weapon as any of the other Archangels, and although God has cooled His temper and turned to nurturing and gentleness, He has not forgotten, and neither have His soldiers.

"It ain't personal," Rick says, and turns away to walk back to the car. Daryl follows. "We're supposed to hate the Devil, right?"

"Right," Daryl says, looking away, and then he mounts his bike and starts it back up again. He holds the machete and wraps his hand around it and the handle of the motorcycle so that the blade lines the top of the handlebars. They make their way past the blockade, graciously cleared by Michael, and head North as they had planned to do before.

 

 

Daryl leads them and soon highway turns to town, town turns to forest, forest turns to deep woods, and then he sees the sign for the campground and turns down it.

The campground is more or less deserted. It isn't warm enough to encourage hikers, and although it's not freezing cold, the chill definitely bites at Daryl's exposed skin. He stops by the lodge tourist center first and kills the engine on the bike. Shane and Rick follow suit.

"I'm gonna check out the inside," Daryl says. "See if there's firewood, coals, food, sleeping bags, any shit we can bring."

"Lemme help," Shane says, and Daryl nods. He leaves his crossbow hanging from the handle of his bike and slides the machete through his belt.

Rick stays behind, because there needs to be someone to look out for anything coming for them, and neither Lori nor Carl know how to defend themselves. Daryl understands this, but it seems weird for Shane to volunteer for it. Although, when Daryl thinks about it, quietly as they make their way up to the main building, he supposes it does make sense. Shane loves Rick dearly and if Rick vouches for Daryl, there's no reason from Shane's point of view to doubt that, but this is how packs figure themselves out. Each member has to pair off with another, so they can figure out who the Alpha is and where the chain of command lies. Daryl is an outsider, and needs to be evaluated by everyone so they can figure out where he fits in.

He comes to this conclusion in the time it takes to walk up the stairs and stop at the door.

There's a "Sorry, we're closed" sign in cheery, curling red letters. The door has a curtain on the inside to keep in the heat. Shane raises his hand and knocks, rapping sharply with his knuckles.

Daryl cocks his head to one side, but doesn't hear any sound coming from within, either from the undead or the living. After a moment he shakes his head and Shane presses his lips together and steps back. Daryl knows what he's going to do, so he's more prepared for the loud sound of splintering wood shattering the air as Shane kicks the door in. It goes down in one kick, and the door swings in to reveal the dark interior.

"Took Rick two," Daryl says with a grin.

Shane snorts and heads inside. He flicks on the light and above them, a dim flower-shaped lamp comes to life with a buzz. It doesn't help the darkness much but at least Daryl can make out the shape of furniture now.

"Alright, usually places like this have a store where they sell shit to unprepared tourists. We should hit that spot first."

"Sounds good," Daryl says, and follows as Shane's shadow moves towards a door at the opposite end of the room. He opens it and switches on another light and the same dull, yellow lamplight fills the room. There's a counter and shelves on the other side, densely packed with all things any camper might ever want. To the left and right are shelves of wood, fire starters, tent hooks, lanterns, and some non-perishable food. Daryl heads that way first and grabs a bag labeled as one for laundry. He tugs the tags off and starts to fill it up.

"So, how did you and Rick meet?" Shane asks after a moment.

Daryl smirks to himself. Honestly Shane lasted longer than he expected. "Rick was workin' on a case," he replies, trying to keep as much of the truth in it as he can because that makes it that much more believable. "I helped him out."

"Helped him out how?" Shane asks. "No offence, but the kind of cases Rick likes to take, there aren't a lot of witnesses and informants willin' to come talkin' to him."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Rick takes the kinds of cases where there ain't no one around to help out," Shane says. Daryl straightens and frowns at him. Shane shakes his head and goes back to looting through the options for tents and sleeping bags, creating a pile on the counter. "He likes murders, arson, shit like that."

"Well, you're a cop," Daryl says. "How do _you_ think Rick and I met?"

Shane shakes his head. "I know him too well to think you're just some guy he met at a bar," he says, grinning so Daryl knows he's not trying to be a dick about it. Daryl nods, conceding that. "But I also know he hasn't really been dating, not until the divorce goes through."

"Right," Daryl says. "Because you and Lori are together."

Shane frowns. "How did you -?"

"I'm good at reading people," Daryl says, grinning. "And Lori ain't exactly subtle." He shoulders the laundry bag and puts it on the counter by Shane's haul, before doing back to load up another.

"No, she's not good at beatin' 'round the bush," Shane agrees with another nod. Daryl resists the urge to put on his glasses so that he can see what Shane's soul looks like when he thinks of her. He imagines it's like the love he has for Rick, but fiercer, more possessive and jealous. "We're not gonna have a problem, all of us, are we?"

He asks it nicely enough, but Daryl can sense the steel beneath his words. Shane is more Type A, he'll fight to defend his own. He doesn't know their history, how long they've all known each other, how long the affair has been going on – if it prompted the divorce, or is a by-product of it.

Daryl shakes his head and shrugs. "No judgement here. To each their own, I say," he says.

Shane nods. "Alright, I think that's enough bonding time for now. And we've picked this place clean."

"Yeah, let’s load up," Daryl says. They grab what they can for their first trip and head back out to the trucks. Rick and Lori are deep in conversation and part when they come out and throw the haul into the back of Shane's car.

"Jesus, is that everything?" Rick says.

"Not even close," Daryl replies with a grin.

"Wait, weren't we supposed to meet your friend?" Lori demands, when Shane goes back in for the second trip. She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head to one side.

Daryl's eyes flash to Rick. He's not sure how he's supposed to explain that they _did_ meet his friend – or at least, one of them – without giving everything away. He clears his throat when Rick doesn't seem forthcoming with an answer. "I'll go back out and meet her," he says. "I won't bring her back here. I promise."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Lori asks.

Rick glares at her. "That's enough," he says. "Daryl's already saved my ass once, and without him we wouldn't even know about any of this."

"…Any of what, dad?" Carl asks, his young voice cutting through the silence. The adults part, as if they'd forgotten he was there. Lori's face goes pale and she swallows, reaching down to take her son's hand in a tight grip.

Daryl presses his lips together. "Tell me about the layout of the cabin," he says, and grabs a stick from the side of the path, handing it to Rick so that he can draw while they wait for Shane to haul everything back out.

Rick nods and sets the tip of the stick against the dirt, dragging it so it makes a vaguely rectangular shape. "There are two doors," he says, and marks them with a set of two lines at the front and back. "The front has steps leading up to it, and it's the second floor. The back door comes out of the basement and goes into a little ravine."

"We'll need to shore that up, then," Daryl says.

Rick lets out a hum of agreement. "There's two floors, not including the basement. Three bedrooms, each with a viewpoint facing out so we'll have a chance of seeing anything coming."

"Carl, why don't we go see if your Uncle Shane needs any help?" Lori asks, holding Carl's hand tightly and leading him into the welcome center. Daryl and Rick watch them go in silence.

"She really doesn't like me," Daryl murmurs.

Rick sighs, rubbing a hand over his mouth and then up through his hair. It's such a similar gesture to what Shane does – Daryl idly wonders which of them started the habit first. "She thinks you and I are fucking," he says.

"Way I see it, she don't got a leg to stand on," Daryl says mildly.

"Yeah," Rick murmurs, sighing again. He looks at Daryl as though considering. "She's…I don't even know. Conservative ain't the right answer."

"She doesn't like gay people," Daryl says, shrugging. "Ain't that uncommon."

"Yeah, but like you said, it's not her place to judge."

"And it's not ours, either," Daryl replies. "If we were fucking, even though we ain't fuckin', she'd hate me just the same 'cause she thinks she still has a right to you. A claim."

Rick frowns. "You talked to her?"

"Nah. I saw it," Daryl says, shaking his head. "First time I saw her, I saw her soul. Shane's, too. They both love you."

Rick snorts.

"I mean it," Daryl says, reaching out and resting a gentle hand on Rick's arm. "I've only seen a soul glow that bright with love in one other person, and he wasn't a mortal man. Shane _loves_ you." Rick bites his lower lip and Daryl takes his hand away. "I'm not sayin' it to make you feel any better about the situation, or whatever. I'm just lettin' you know that there's a reason they're actin' like this. They're trusting me 'cause you vouched for me – which, I never thanked you for that."

Rick huffs, his cheeks turning pink. "Way I see it, no one better to have on your side than the Devil."

Daryl rolls his eyes. "Sure," he says, and tries not to think about how warm it makes him feel to have Rick turn like that. From hate to camaraderie, this man changes as quickly as mercury. "Alright. I'd suggest we lock the basement from the inside. That way we can escape that way if we get overrun. We'll be faster downhill, and they'll stumble and fall and be slower. We should park at least one of the cars around the back – it'll keep 'em hidden and mean we can run to 'em if we gotta go that way."

"Smart," Rick says.

Daryl looks up as Lori and Shane emerge with Carl from the welcome center, all of them heavily laden with bags. Daryl and Rick come forward and Daryl takes one of Lori's load, and Rick helps his son.

"Thank you," Lori says, heaving a sigh of relief when Daryl takes one of the heavier bags from her arms and slings it over his shoulder.

"Don't mention it," Daryl says. "Alright, Rick, how far away is the cabin from here?"

"A few miles, down the main road."

"Let's go then."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know - the daily updates won't cover weekends. So this is it until Monday. Hope you guys like it!

The cabin is exactly as Rick described it. Daryl tucks his motorcycle against the front stairs and they park Rick and Shane's cars around the side and back as Daryl suggested. Then, they go inside. Clearly no one has visited this cabin in a while – it's thick with dust and cobwebs, but the electricity works and when he flicks on the light, an overhead fan whirs to life. Lori cracks all of the windows and opens the blinds to every window so that they can air it out for now, while they can.

They load everything from the cars into the living room to sort and organize. There are two couches wrapped in hideous floral print, a combination of teal and light green and pink that hurts Daryl's eyes to look at for too long.

There's a kitchen, a dining area large enough to seat six comfortably, and then stairs up to the next floor and a door leading to the basement. The basement is completely barren, barely more than a cube of concrete with a door leading to the outside. With Rick and Shane's help, Daryl bars the door, locks the padlock on the inside, and braces a chair under the handle.

"You worried about bears?" Shane teases.

Daryl shakes his head. "Worse than bears out there now," he replies.

Then, they separate into rooms. Carl gets his own room, which is no surprise. There's a small one tucked on the opposite side of the stairs, the farthest one from any entryways and the most protected. Lori and Shane claim the master bedroom, since apparently, they're not going to bother pretending anymore now that it's the end of the world – or maybe they never have pretended, and Lori just likes to argue for show. Which leaves one last bedroom, and Rick and Daryl.

"I'll sleep on the couch," Daryl says, dumping his bag at the end of it and setting his crossbow on the coffee table. It's a dark, pretty wood, and is angled towards the fire pit. There's no television in the living room, which he understands because he doubts they get good signal here, but it would be nice to be able to tune into the news and track the progression of Samael's horde.

Rick rolls his eyes. "Trust me, Daryl, that couch is the most uncomfortable thing you'll ever sleep on," he says. "The bed's big enough for both of us."

Daryl regards Rick, eyebrows raised. "You're not gonna kill me in my sleep, are you?" he asks.

Rick snorts. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. You seem the type."

"Cute. Come on."

Daryl rolls his eyes, but follows Rick up the stairs and into the third bedroom. There's a built-in closet on the left wall and a bed that is, technically, large enough to fit two people. Barely. There's enough room around each edge of the bed to walk around. Daryl dumps his bag and crossbow on it and leaves Rick alone, heading back downstairs.

Carl is in the kitchen, helping out by putting away the food they'd managed to gather. Daryl makes a mental note to try and find some wire and anything else he might be able to set up as snares and animal traps.

He's also willing to put money on the assumption that none of them thought to bring things in which to cook _or_ eat food. He doubts there's a lot in the way of pots and pans in this place, or that Shane or Lori thought to pack them.

There's a phone on the wall by his head and a pad of paper with a pen sitting next to it on the counter. "Hey. Carl, was it?" Daryl asks, grabbing the notepad and the pen and walking over to the boy. Carl nods, his eyes wide. "Hey. I'm Daryl, I'm a friend of your dad's. I wanted to say sorry for how we ended up meetin'."

"It's okay," Carl says, slowly.

"I was hopin' you could help me out," Daryl says, and puts the notepad and pen down in front of Carl. "If you see anythin' like pots, pans, utensils, all that kinda stuff, would you mind writing it down? That way when I go into town I'll know what we already have, and what we need to get."

"Sure," Carl says, sliding the pen and paper a little closer.

Daryl smiles and leaves him to it, comes back into the little entryway as Lori comes back down the stairs. Shane is close behind her.

"I'm gonna go meet up with my friend," he says, loud enough that Rick can hear at the top of the stairs. "I should be back by nightfall."

Rick steps out of the room. "Do you have a phone?" he asks.

Daryl hesitates, remembering that he'd told Lori his had gotten busted up. So, he doesn't answer, but pats his pocket and Rick nods. He still has the machete, having put it back in his belt after arriving at the cabin, so he doesn't ask for his crossbow. "I'll be back soon," he says with a half-hearted salute, and leaves the cabin and goes to his bike.

"Daryl, wait!" It's Rick's voice, and Daryl turns to see Rick skid to a stop at the top of the stairs. He cocks his head to one side. "Just…be safe, alright?"

"I will." And Rick nods and Daryl mounts his bike and kicks it to life, the back wheel spinning up a flutter of leaves. He drives it up the small hill to the main road and turns it towards the welcome center.

He passes it and slows with a curse when, just before the turn to the main road, he sees a few walkers gathered. Likely drawn by the noise of the vehicles. He kills the engine and strides forward, dealing with the three of them quickly. Then he puts his sunglasses on, because especially in the gathering dark, the golden glow of them will help him see any coming danger more quickly.

He doesn't see any more, but he freezes when he sees a glow in the distance. It's not the natural glow of sunlight or fire, but burns a bright orange, like if radiation had a color. He frowns and holds his machete loosely at his side and approaches the glow.

Then, movement to his left catches his eye, and he brings the machete around and swings it hard, just in time for it to get caught by the edge of a broadsword. It's Michael, still in his riot gear, and Daryl gasps and lowers his weapon and takes off his sunglasses.

"Shit," he says, apologetically. "Didn't realize it was you."

Michael removes his helmet, grinning widely at him. "Hello, Lucifer," he greets brightly. "Come see."

Daryl follows Michael through the trees in the direction of where the glow was. As they walk, between one tree and the next, Michael disappears. Daryl keeps going forward, until he sees what looks to be the entrance to an underground storehouse. There are steps leading into the mound of earth and a plain green door made of metal. There's no keyhole, no window, and no discernible way to get inside.

Daryl frowns, looking around, but Michael is no longer there. He huffs and puts his sunglasses back on.

When he looks back at the door, his heart stutters and he sucks in a breath. The sharp stabbing sensation of fear is one he knows well. It's the same feeling he remembers having when he'd heard his father stumbling into the trailer after drinking. The sense of dread, of a deep and terrible darkness on the other side of the door, is powerful.

There's a mark on the door. A four-pointed star, with beams of golden color arching from it to give the impression that it's rising from the ground. Above the star, in orange, is the arc of Heaven. Silver swirls frame the edges of the picture – Raphael. Brown-red feathers are painted in an artful swirl around the shafts of light. Gabriel.

Daryl looks around, unsure if Michael or one of the other Archangels might be watching him, but he sees nothing. He looks back at the door and steps towards it until he's at the bottom of the stairs. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle and rise, like he's being watched.

He forces himself not to look over his shoulder, and reaches forward, pressing his palm flat against the door where the arc rests. He sweeps his hand down, tracing the thickest beam of light, and then across to the left, where a single large brown feather ends, and then over to the right. The door flashes brightly and opens with a sharp cracking sound, like someone kicked it in.

The inside is completely dark but with his sunglasses on, he can see marks of an angel's grace swept across the walls, like someone dipped their fingers in luminous paint and trailed their hands across the surfaces. He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

"Welcome, Lucifer." It's Michael's voice.

Daryl shivers. "Who else is here?"

"Hello, Lucifer!" Gabriel greets. Her voice is lower than he's become used to hearing.

"Lucifer, welcome," comes a third voice, one that Daryl has never heard before, but he knows it's Raphael.

He steps into where he feels is vaguely the center of the room and comes to a halt. He can hear noises, like the skittering of rats, the drag of heavy feathers along the floor, the hiss of a snake. He hears the growl of a dog and the low grating noise of metal sliding along metal. His arms break out in goose bumps and he shivers, feeling his breath mist in the air.

He takes off his glasses and the luminous paint marks disappear, leaving him completely surrounded within the darkness. He's not alone, he knows the Archangels are here, but they are in a plane that he, as a mortal, cannot perceive.

He closes his eyes and drops to his knees. "Samael is coming," he says. "I need your help."

"You have it," Raphael says. His voice is incredibly low, and so quiet because of it that Daryl has to strain to hear. Daryl feels a hand touch his shoulder, warm and gentle. "I give you my healing hand." Warmth drips down Daryl's shoulder like a layer of molten wax, the heat building and building until it feels like it will burn the skin from his body.

"I give you my swiftness," Gabriel says, and places her hand at the nape of Daryl's neck. "And my guidance."

Daryl heaves in a shaky breath when he feels both their touches withdraw. "Thank you," he says.

"And I give you my power," Michael says. Daryl doesn't dare open his eyes, but he feels Michael cup his face and feels Michael's gentle kiss against his forehead. "To see all that is true, and right, and that you might see the sins and the stains without help. Give me the glasses."

Daryl does, his fingers trembling with cold and overwhelmed by the presence of such power in the room. Archangels are absolute, the ultimate warriors and those who carry out God's plan. Daryl isn't the original Lucifer, he isn't Samael, and that kind of power would never be his, but he's known a taste of it before.

He holds the glasses out and Michael takes them. He doesn't hear them being crushed or thrown, but they are not returned, and when Daryl opens his eyes he finds that he can see the luminous paint on its own. He stands.

"Thank you," he says again.

He hears Gabriel laugh. "Peace be with you, Lucifer," she says.

"And with your Spirit," Daryl replies.

He knows as soon as they vanish. Light floods the room and Daryl winces, shielding his eyes with his hands until they adjust to the sudden bright light. He can't find any source of the light, but this is by far not an ordinary room.

There is nothing inside of it except for a single, plain brown box. On top of it rests his glasses, which he grabs and hooks into the front of his shirt again. It's for safekeeping, he tells himself, more than anything else. He can't risk something like this falling into the wrong hands.

He kneels down and opens the box.

He gasps.

"Holy…" He can see the shine of the Archangels' power on the weapons inside. He pushes the lid all the way open and lets it prop up against the wall. Inside there's a gun, it looks like any other kind of standard police-issue gun, but there's power in it. There's a sword, gleaming gently in the light, a broadsword almost the size of Michael's and, Daryl senses, so sharp it could separate a water droplet in two.

There are long knives much like the machete, and more guns buried underneath. It's a veritable treasure trove in a world like this.

Daryl stands, hurriedly closing the box, and grabs the handle on one side to haul it up over his shoulder. He grunts with the weight, wincing as he tries to force his body to take it, and heads back to the door. As soon as the door opens the lights flicker out, leaving him blinking and trying to see in the fuzzy dusk light coming in through the trees.

He hauls the box over to his bike and sets it down, cursing when he realizes he has no way to tie it on. Rick has rope back at the cabin, but Daryl can't afford to leave the weapons here where just anyone could find them while he goes back to retrieve it.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and dials Rick's number. "Daryl?"

"I need your help," he says in greeting. It's starting to get cold. "Get your car and follow the trail. I'm right near the entrance to the highway."

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" Rick asks.

"I'm fine, I just found some shit and I can't haul it all back on my bike. I need the car. And rope."

"Alright, I'm on my way," Rick says, and hangs up, leaving Daryl with nothing but the silence and darkness of the coming night. He can hear animals around, gathering slowly closer now that there aren't any moving predators in the form of men. He can see the lumps of black that were the walkers he killed, and eyes them distastefully. Without the gold they're mere husks. Daryl wonders where they will go now, with the gates of Hell open and the frozen lake broken apart.

He hears Rick's car soon enough and straightens, wincing when the headlights glare over the fallen leaves and trail and the car rolls to a stop next to his bike. Rick gets out and gives him a nod of greeting, before his eyes fall to the box.

He lets out a low whistle. "What's in here?" he asks.

"Weapons," Daryl replies. "Guns, knives. A sword."

"A _sword_?" Rick repeats, lifting his gaze to Daryl's.

"Yeah," Daryl replies. "It's one of Michael's, I think. You have to be careful. Only certain people can wield it."

Rick frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Michael is purity and power. His weapons were created only to be used by his chosen people. No fuckin' idea why he gave it to me, but if the wrong people touch it, let's just say it'll end badly for them."

"Got it, no touching the magical sword," Rick says blandly, putting his hands on his hips. "Help me load it into the car?"

Daryl nods and he grabs one of the handles. Rick takes the other and hauls it into the backseat of the car, and Daryl pushes it all the way in once he's out of the way. They get back to their respective vehicles and drive back to the cabin.

Daryl leaves his motorcycle up front as before and he helps Rick haul the box into the main area, before Rick parks his car around the back next to Shane's truck. Carl comes running up to Daryl and greets him with a warm smile, holding up a sheet of paper covered in messy scrawl.

"Here's the list!" he says, presenting it proudly, and Daryl smiles, taking it. It's as he suspected – there really isn't much in terms of cooking implements, though he's glad to see that apparently Carl found a pot, so they'll be able to cook soup or rice. Until the water stops running.

"Awesome. Good job, kid," he says, ruffling Carl's hair.

"Hey," Shane says, coming down the stairs as Rick enters and locks the door behind him. "Found an old radio in the closet. Gonna see if we can tune into any news. What's that?" he asks, gesturing to the box.

"My friend gave me some weapons," Daryl says. "We gotta be careful, though. Some of them need special handlin'."

Shane eyes him for a moment, head cocked to one side. "You weren't gone all that long," he says, voice carefully neutral.

With Michael's gift, Daryl can see the souls of those he looks upon plainly without the use of his glasses. Carl's soul is dark, he's not old enough to have started taking on sin. Rick's is as flat and mirror-like as ever, each emotion curling around the edge like the flames on Michael's sword – touching him but not marking him, not damaging him. Shane's soul burns brightly with red, but Daryl can see the swirl of dark suspicion there. It's not malicious, Daryl is sure of that, but it's there nonetheless.

Daryl nods, pressing his lips together. "My bike goes fast," he says. "And I was already close when I called Rick. Couldn't haul the thing back on my own. She doesn’t know where we are, I swear."

"We should call it a night," Rick says. "It's getting dark, and we'll know more from the news in the morning."

"Lori's already closed and sealed all the windows," Shane says, and Rick nods. They exchange a quick, tight hug, and Rick hugs Carl before Shane and Carl head upstairs to their rooms. Daryl regards Rick for a moment, both of them hovering by the couch.

"Help me get this downstairs?" Daryl asks, gesturing to the box, and Rick nods. They carry it down to the basement and place it by the door before heading back up. "Seriously, though, I'm okay with sleeping on the couch."

"Shut up," Rick says with a roll of his eyes, and gestures for Daryl to lead the way up the stairs. Daryl huffs but goes, entering the small room and shedding his clothes down to a t-shirt and his underwear as Rick closes the door. He sets his glasses on the floor, under his side of the bed.

He climbs into the bed, coughing a little at the dustiness of the blankets, and settles down as Rick strips down to his shirt and underwear as well and slides into place next to him.

They lay there in tense silence. Daryl imagines he can hear Rick's heart beating. He sighs. "How long are we gonna keep up the lie?" he asks. Rick gives a low hum in answer and Daryl turns onto his side so that he's facing Rick's silhouette. "About who I am. About how we met. I don't know how to explain all of this without goin' into all that shit."

Rick sighs. There's a small amount of light coming in through the window and so Daryl can see him fold a hand behind his head. He's on his back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes shine in the low light. "I don't know," he confesses, quiet and solemn like he's in a church. "I don't want them to think we're both crazy. Lori's religious, but Shane never was. Even with everything, it'll be hard to convince them of what's happening. Hell, _I_ barely even know what's happening."

"Ask me," Daryl says. "I won't lie."

"But you're the Devil."

"I _was_ ," Daryl mutters. "I don't have that power anymore. Not all of it, anyway."

"How did you really find the weapons?"

"There was a bunker," Daryl says. "Where you found me. It was marked with the sign of the Archangels, so I went inside. Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael were there. They spoke to me and offered me their help, and the weapons came along with it."

"How long will it take?" Rick asks. "You said I had to stay alive through…through it all. Do you know how long it'll be?"

Daryl sighs and shakes his head. "No," he says. "But God likes tradition. He likes the number seven, and the number forty. And three."

"So, seven hours? Days? _Years_?" Rick lets out an exasperated sound. "We can't live like this for forty _years_."

"I know," Daryl replies in a whisper. "Gabriel gave me her guidance. I'm hoping she'll come to me with more messages, to help me figure out what to do and where to go."

"I'm not gonna sit here like a Goddamn damsel and wait for everything to blow over," Rick says harshly.

"I know."

Rick sighs again, heavy and long, and wipes a hand over his face. "I guess I should thank you," he says. "I don't want to, but I should. If it weren't for you, Carl would have gone to school and – and he could have -. Or Shane and Lori. I could have lost all of them."

Daryl bites his lower lip. "I saw Negan," he says. Rick looks at him, his face obscured in shadow. He's so _dark_. "He was in Samael's lair, trapped under ice. When I went to Samael, to ask him for help, I saw him there."

"What happened?" Rick asks, and turns onto his side to face Daryl fully.

"I…" Daryl shivers, remembering the fear he'd felt, the chokehold of the ice threatening to crack his ribs and the claws of the dead threatening to pull him under. "Samael melted the ice, and almost killed me doing it. The souls escaped. I can see them – in the dead. They're full of Samael's color."

"What color?"

"Gold," Daryl says. "It's pure, liquid gold. The brightest and prettiest gold I've ever seen. That's what Samael is – light and energy."

"I wish I could see it," Rick says.

Daryl bites his lip and thinks of his glasses. "I can probably make that happen," he says. "The glasses I wore, I don't need them anymore. They help me to see. They'll probably help you, too."

"Can I?" Rick asks. "I want to see you."

Daryl considers it for a moment, before he sits up and turns to reach for the glasses. There's a lamp on a small table by the bed and he turns it on, wincing in the light, and grabs them from under the bed. He holds them out to Rick.

Rick sits up as well, taking them hesitantly. "What do you think you'll look like?" he asks. He won't put them on yet, Daryl is sure, until he knows what he expects to see.

"My greatest sin was envy," Daryl murmurs, staring at the glasses in Rick's hands. "So, probably green. Probably a lot of green."

"And Shane is…"

"Red," Daryl replies. "It's passion, lust, whatever you wanna call it. I've never seen someone burn as bright with that red as Shane does. He's…he loves you, and Lori, and Carl, with everything that he is. There's nothing left in the bucket for him."

"So he's going to Hell."

"Probably."

"Lori too?" Rick whispers.

Daryl sighs. "She committed adultery," he replies. "Still is. And she's possessive and jealous and lustful as well. There's gluttony there, too. It would be up to Minos to determine that." Rick presses his lips together, his hands shaking. "Even now, they can be saved, Rick. I truly believe that."

Rick nods, taking in a shuddering breath, and puts the glasses on. He raises his eyes and Daryl can't see his eyes move from under the glasses but he knows Rick is looking him up and down.

Then, Rick frowns, and takes them off. "I don't think they're working," he says, handing them back.

Daryl frowns. "What do you mean?" he asks. He's sure Michael didn't rid them of their power. He can feel Metatron's touch still on them.

"You're…you're all black. There's no color there."

" _What_?" Daryl demands. The only way that would be possible is if…

No. No, it _can't_ be. Daryl's soul isn't made like Rick's – he's sure it isn't made like Rick's. He feels guilt, and greed, and wrath, just as every other man does. But, so does Rick. Rick feels it, but it doesn't touch him. It doesn't…

"Look again," Daryl says, handing them back. "Look _real_ close."

Rick huffs an exasperated sound, but takes the glasses and puts them back on his face. His brow creases like he's concentrating as hard as he can on the shape of Daryl through the lenses. Then, he shakes his head. "I'm tellin' ya, man. I don't see any colors. Maybe…maybe when you died you got wiped clean?"

"That's not how it works," Daryl says. It occurs to him, then, that the last time he was even close to a mirror, his glasses had been busted so he hadn't been able to see. He stands and goes to the door, yanking it open and crossing the hallway to where the one communal bathroom on the top floor is located. He hears Rick get up to follow, urgently but quietly whispering his name.

He turns on the light and winces at the brightness, so out of place considering the dim, energy-saving lamps in the rest of the place. This light is harsh and bright like the lights in a hospital operating room. He runs a hand across his forehead, through his hair, and lifts his eyes just as Rick comes into view in the threshold.

For a long, long moment, all Daryl can do is stare. His hair is longer than he's used to it being, almost reaching his neck, and a much darker brown than that of Lucifer, no longer bleached by the fires of Hell and the light of God. His eyes seem darker, somehow, sadder when they stare back at him. There's scruff on his jaw, just a little bit of it, and sweat stains on his clothes. But his vision goes deeper than that, darker than that, and as he looks at himself he can see swirls of yellow and blue and red, but they're not true colors, not truly staining him.

His soul looks just like Rick's. Flat. Black. A mirror, reflecting but not retaining anything.

He lets out a shaky breath and reaches out to touch his reflection. The fingers connect and he pushes until he feels the mirror start to bend and crack in protest. He wants to punch it, but resists the urge. "Fuck," he whispers, panic welling up in him, and a flicker of fire, red and yellow, curls itself around his neck.

Rick lets out a quiet gasp, because he can see it too. "What…?"

He reaches out to touch Daryl's arm. "What does yellow mean?" he asks.

"Fear, usually," Daryl replies in a low whisper. "Sometimes greed."

"Are you afraid?" Rick asks.

"Yeah," Daryl says. "This means…this means I'm like you. That my soul is like yours. That I'm…"

One of _Cain's_. What can that possibly mean? Surely God would have told him, or Death would have told him, what his true nature is before sending him on his mission. But of course, his soul has been filled with the power of Lucifer for so long, and God had said Himself that He cannot see Cain's line – so maybe they didn't know. But would Michael not have seen it? Or Gabriel? Or Metatron?

"This can't be happening," Daryl whispers, running his nails across his head and scratching at his scalp. Rick's hand moves away and he turns to look at the other man. "Fuck, I don't -. I don't understand what this means."

"You're like me," Rick says, and finally takes the glasses off and sets them on the kitchen sink corner. "Does that mean you're in danger, like me?"

Daryl swallows. "I don't know," he replies. "Probably."

Rick nods, pressing his lips together. Daryl can't read the expression in his eyes, he's not familiar enough with Rick yet, but his soul is strangely quiet. Like he's thinking so hard that there's no emotion there to react with.

"Then we need to protect each other," Rick finally says, giving a nod like the fate of the universe has been decided in that moment. "No more of me sittin' back while you rush into danger, no secrets. Nothin' like that. You get me?"

"No secrets?" Daryl repeats weakly.

Rick nods. "Between us, at least," he says. "I don't…I don't know about the others yet. Maybe we should wait until there's no way to deny it. I don't know. I have to think about that, but if we're the same, that means the stakes are the same for us, which means we have to trust each other, and watch out for each other."

Daryl nods, heaving a sigh. He turns away from the mirror and reaches out to turn out the light, cloaking them in darkness except for the small, yellowy piece of light coming from their room. Rick steps back and Daryl follows him back to the bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

"Tomorrow, I'll go back to the bunker," Daryl says as they slide into bed. "I'll pray for guidance. Maybe Gabriel will help me figure out what the fuck we're meant to do now."

Rick nods. It's the last thing Daryl sees before he rolls over and turns off the light. "Would it…help, if I came with?" he asks hesitantly.

"I don't know," Daryl replies honestly. "But Michael didn't smite me on sight, so he probably won't harm you either."

"I don't know if that should make me feel better or not," Rick says, his sarcasm audible. Daryl huffs a laugh. "Will you tell me about soul colors? I saw some, a little, on yours. But I don't know what they mean."

Daryl bites his lower lip. "Sure," he says. "Not sure how well I'll be able to explain it, though." Rick makes an encouraging sound in answer and Daryl sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Well, so it's kind of like – you know how when you're around people after a while, you can kind of just tell how they're feeling? You know when they're sad, happy, all that shit?"

"Yeah," Rick whispers.

"Well, seeing souls gets like that, after a while," Daryl says. "The only difference is I didn't just have that. When I was Lucifer, I knew _exactly_ what each shade meant and how I could twist people to bring them closer to Hell. I never really wanted to, but I could. I could look at someone and know just what to say, or how to appear, or whatever else, to make them do whatever I wanted."

"How?" Rick asks.

Daryl brushes his thumb along his lower lip, considering. "Okay," he says. "Let's take Lori." Rick shifts his weight but doesn't say anything in response. "If I was still Lucifer, and she was someone that I had been given as a target, for whatever reason – I guess if I was just a _lil_ bit more of an asshole -." At that, Rick huffs a laugh. "I'd know just what to do to bring her to Hell, even without the adultery shit she was already doing."

Rick is quiet for a moment. His soul is flickering with something like teal. Excitement, anticipation. "Tell me," he breathes, and Daryl feels a warm hand touch his arm.

He shivers. "Why do you wanna know?" he asks. Rick's teal fire is strange, all things considered. Like he _wants_ to know how to condemn his wife, his friends, whoever Daryl might have talked about.

Rick swallows hard enough that Daryl can hear it. "I like knowin' what makes people tick," he says. The hand on Daryl's arm hasn't moved. Rick has his palm pressed flat, fingers splayed out wide, on his bicep. His thumb brushes over the top of the muscle, close to the part where his arm meets his shoulder, and back. "I wish I could get inside someone's head like that – the murderers, the sadists, the bad people of the world. I wish I could understand how they think. It'd make 'em easier to catch, but I guess I just…want to understand it, too. I killed Negan, but there wasn't any thought there. It was like…instinct, I don't know how else to describe it. But Negan didn't operate like that. It would have been nice to know what he had to say."

Daryl bites his lower lip, remaining still. The fire around Rick's soul is burning brightly in him – if there was enough light to see by, Daryl is sure his eyes would be shining with it.

"Tell me," Rick murmurs, squeezing Daryl's arm gently. "Please?"

Daryl presses his lips together and nods, even though Rick can't see him do it. "I'd come to you," he says. "I'd figure out the kind of things you were most attracted to, and I'd appear as the person who could give you everythin' you ever wanted. I'd seduce you and make you mine, and then I'd make sure she knew. I'd dip her soul with so much envy and possessiveness that she'd do something drastic." Rick sucks in a breath. "I'd come as a man, so that you'd argue with her, saying that she has no right to feel that way, that it's just 'cause it's gay that she'd hate me so much. Maybe she'd talk Shane into doing it, I don't know, but one way or another, that person would die, and it'd be on her soul that the mark would go. Even now, murder isn't forgiven by God. There would be no redemption for her."

"You'd make her kill you?" Rick says, gasping.

"One way or another, yeah," Daryl replies. "Kill the vessel I took to get close to you."

"Do you think she would?" Rick asks. Daryl feels the bed creak as he slides closer, he can sense Rick so close to him on the tiny bed. The teal flames licking along Rick's soul are so bright, but still refuse to stain him.

"I haven't met a soul yet I couldn't corrupt," Daryl replies. "Except yours." _Except mine._

"What about Shane?"

"That's easy," Daryl says. "I'd kill you. He'd hunt me down and gut me for it."

"Carl?" Rick whispers.

"No," Daryl replies, harshly. "I won't touch a fuckin' kid. _Never_."

Rick huffs a laugh. His thumb keeps gently brushing over Daryl's arm. It's making him shiver, nerves that haven't felt a good touch in a long time firing rapidly down his spine and up into his head. Daryl lets out a quiet hum and closes his eyes.

"You can't read me," Rick says. "My soul. My sins. Shit like that, right?"

"For you, it's like…fire," Daryl replies, opening his eyes again so that he can see. The excitement has cooled, but it's still there, mixing now with flickers of red. "It touches you, I can see and sense what you're feeling, what emotions and sins you're trying to feel, but it doesn't stain you like it does everyone else."

"Even murder."

"Even murder," Daryl finishes with another nod.

Rick hums, his hand sliding down Daryl's arm, to the elbow, then back up. "When we first met," he whispers, "you said you'd give me your luck. So that I could do anythin' I put my mind to. Is that still there?"

"Yeah," Daryl murmurs. "I think so."

"So if I said I wanted to fuck you, would you let me?"

Daryl gasps, his eyes widening. "I -." He clears his throat and shifts his weight but Rick's hand doesn't move. "You wanna fuck me?"

"Yes," Rick says. He doesn't offer any explanation.

"Why?" Daryl asks weakly.

"Don't ask me 'why'," Rick says. His hand moves, finally, from Daryl's arm, and Daryl breathes out shakily when instead Rick touches his face, flattening his hand along his jaw, fingers curling on the back of his neck. Rick tugs him closer and Daryl's hands flatten on Rick's chest. Rick's heartbeat is steady and strong, like it's trying to beat out of his chest. "Yes or no? No secrets, Daryl – I wanna fuck you. Would you let me?"

"…Yes," Daryl finally replies, the admittance weak. "Yeah, I'd let you."

Rick's soul turns ablaze, red fires of lust and teal excitement meshing with the edges of the mirror of his soul. "Good," he says, and then Daryl hears him lean in and Rick's forehead touches his, their noses brush, and then Rick's mouth is on his. The kiss is gentle but insistent and Daryl gasps, closing his eyes and arching closer as Rick takes advantage of his open mouth to slip his tongue between Daryl's lips.

Rick kisses him like a man dying of thirst when greeted with his first drink of cool water. It's passion like Shane's, desire like Lori's, and Daryl can feel it like a physical thing against his hands. He slides his touch up Rick's chest, tightening his hands on Rick's shoulders.

Rick shoves himself upright with a low growl, pulling Daryl onto his back on the bed and pressing his weight over Daryl's slack body. He steals another kiss, deeper this time, and Daryl gasps, unable to stop the quiet moan he lets out as Rick's hands flatten on his flanks. He knots his fingers in Rick's hair, growling softly when Rick pushes his shirt up to touch his bare skin. Rick's hands are unbearably hot, like there's a fire burning him from the inside despite the relative chill of the room.

Then, Rick pulls back. "Turn on the light," he says, and Daryl obeys with a quiet whine. The soft light of the lamp fills the room and Rick pushes himself to his knees on the bed. He's straddling one of Daryl's legs, the outline of his cock easily visible in his underwear. "Stay right here."

Daryl nods and Rick gets to his feet and goes to his bag. "You – did you pack shit for this?" he asks, breathless and disbelieving, his eyes going wide when Rick pulls out a small bottle of lube with a victorious, mischievous smirk.

Rick climbs back onto the bed and reaches over to turn the light back off. He kisses Daryl harshly, running a hand through his hair in a forceful touch. "Yeah," he says, kissing Daryl again. They're both breathing hard. "Once I knew I was stuck with ya, I knew I was gonna fuck you. Or try."

" _Why_?" Daryl demands. "I thought you hated me."

Rick laughs. "Maybe you're not as good at reading souls as you thought," he replies, and Daryl has to think that maybe he isn't. After all, wrath and lust have similar shades. But he'd thought… "Roll over."

Daryl bites his lip and obeys, pushing himself flat on his stomach as Rick kneels over his thighs. Rick lets out a quiet growl and leans down, wrapping a hand in Daryl's hair to force his head to one side, and opens his mouth wide on Daryl's neck to suck a dark mark there. Daryl shivers, biting his lower lip again, and presses his hands flat to the bed so he can arch his body up, grinding against where he can feel Rick's cock pressed against his ass.

Rick lets go of him and drags his nails down Daryl's back, eliciting another shiver from the man. He hooks his fingers in Daryl's underwear and tugs them down, just enough to expose his ass to the air. His hands flatten on Daryl's ass and squeeze. "Fuck," Rick snarls, his voice thick with lust. Daryl wishes he could see him, but with the angle he can't turn quite right to see Rick's soul – and, in the dark, he can't see Rick's face, can't read the thoughts there. He can taste Rick's lust, his desire, in the air, like someone sprayed the room with cinnamon.

He feels Rick let go to grab the lube, the bottle opening with a quiet click. Then, Daryl hisses as Rick pours some straight onto his skin, the cool gel making goose bumps spread up his arms. Rick growls and lets the bottle drop, and then Daryl feels a finger spread through the lube, between his legs so that he's as wet as a girl.

One of Rick's fingers finds his hole and, slick with lube, he starts to push inside. He's not gentle about it, he slides his finger in and Daryl hisses, clenching up as his body tries to fight the intrusion, but Rick will not let himself be rejected. He slides it in to the first knuckle, curling it down, and lets out another hard breath, leaning down and putting his weight on Daryl's shoulder, biting at his neck.

"Fuck," Daryl growls. His neck has always been sensitive – it's like Rick knows, like he can see each point of pressure and each flicker of fire along Daryl's skin, telling him where to touch, where to bite, what sounds to make. Maybe it's instinct, like Rick said, or maybe he's much better at reading people, even in the dark, than Daryl ever was.

Daryl shivers, his body going lax abruptly, just enough that Rick can shove his finger all the way inside. He curls it down, brushing along Daryl's insides, stretching him out. "Fuck, you're tight," Rick growls. "You ever let a man fuck you, before you became the Devil?"

Daryl gasps and shakes his head. "Wanted to," he says. "Never did."

"Why?"

"If I ain't allowed to ask 'Why' -." And Daryl goes silent, his words choked off as Rick slides his free hand around the front of his neck, squeezing gently.

Rick lets out a low, rumbling laugh. "You wanna know why, then?" he asks, and Daryl sucks in a shaky breath and nods. Rick pulls his finger out almost all the way and comes back with two, forcing Daryl's body to part for him. "You first."

Daryl groans, shoulders tensing as Rick's fingers slide inside of him and curl down, finding a spot that's more sensitive than the rest. It pools as liquid heat in Daryl's stomach, sends electricity up his spine. It feels good, Rick touching him there. He clenches up and arches his hips as best he can and moans when Rick bites his neck, leaving another raw-looking mark in the shape of his teeth.

"When I was alive," he starts, gritting his teeth when Rick touches him there again. "I – I lived with my daddy and brother. They would'a skinned me alive if they knew I liked men."

Rick hums. "So you never even tried in secret?" he asks.

"Never," Daryl replies.

"But now they're dead, or gone, and so you can?"

"I want to," Daryl says, the confession like a brand on the back of his neck. Being the Devil had come with all sorts of perks, the best of all a lack of guilt that came with the title. Once you've seen sin, _real_ sin, it's easy to forgive the little things. And it's the Goddamn Apocalypse and he's allowed to let a pretty man fuck him if he wants to.

Rick lets out a quiet, pleased sound, and Daryl closes his eyes when he feels Rick's lips against his nape. Rick's hand squeezes his throat again, gently, but enough to send a ricochet of desire down Daryl's spine when Rick shoves three fingers in deep and brushes his prostate.

"I wanna fuck you because I feel like…I feel like I need to," Rick says, quietly. "You've met God. Is shit like destiny all it's cracked up to be?"

"Not in my experience," Daryl replies.

"But there's shit like – like you meet someone, and you see them, and you think to yourself, 'There's somethin' about 'em', and you have to do…you _have_ to do it."

"Like with Negan?"

Rick growls. "Maybe."

Daryl gasps when Rick's fingers withdraw and his hand leaves Daryl's neck. He hears clothes rustling and then Rick's cock is pressed against his ass, rubbing through the lube slicked against Daryl's skin. "We're the same," Rick says, running his hands across Daryl's bare lower back. "We're the same, and we're in this together, and I need to. I'm not gonna do this just once."

Daryl doesn't doubt that for a second. "I'll let you," he says. His body is burning up under Rick's, his cock hard where it's trapped between the sheets and his stomach. He understands, as ridiculous as it seems. Maybe his fascination with Rick goes beyond his soul, maybe it's something he hadn't felt as Lucifer, but he feels it now, he _understands_.

He reaches back with one hand and finds Rick's thigh, grabbing tight at the bunch of his underwear around the muscle. "Fuck me, Rick," he demands, and looks over his shoulder to see that Rick's soul is surrounded by an aura of pure, focused red. It's not wrath, it's not lust, it's not excitement. It's some heady combination of the three things, and it's burning Rick like it's trying to desperately stain his soul, but it can't.

Rick lets out a low, shaky breath, and nods. He grabs his cock and spreads Daryl apart with his other hand, before he goes up onto his knees and presses his cockhead against Daryl's stretched hole. Daryl whines as he pushes inside, his free hand forming a fist so he can bite his knuckles and stop himself making too much noise.

Rick lets go of his cock and fists his hand in Daryl's hair, forcing his face back against the pillows. He leans over Daryl and pushes all the way inside, splitting Daryl apart and forcing his body to accept Rick. Rick shudders, growling softly, and bites down hard enough on Daryl's shoulder that Daryl is sure, if he didn't still have his shirt on, Rick would break skin.

" _Fuck_ ," Rick growls, and puts his hands on the mattress so that he can push back and slide in. Daryl whimpers, shaking as Rick's cock brushes over his prostate, his virgin body twinging at accepting something so big inside of him, but he _wants_ it. "You're so fuckin' tight, God _damn_."

"Rick, _please_ ," Daryl gasps, clenching his eyes tightly shut. "Move."

Rick growls and shoves himself away, pulling out completely, and Daryl doesn't even have time to complain before Rick's big hands are on his hips, hauling him to his elbows and knees. Within a moment Rick is back, forcing his way back inside, and Daryl trembles.

"That's it," Rick hisses, his hands tight enough on Daryl's hips that his nails sink in and leave biting marks behind. Daryl moans, muffling the sound against the bed, as Rick starts to fuck him – long, slow thrusts that make the bed creak and groan with the strain, and light Daryl up from the inside.

Rick fucks in again, hard enough that the sounds of their bodies colliding fill the room, and Daryl moans, reaching back and stroking his cock, his weight on his shoulder, as Rick leans over him and fists a hand in his hair to hold him still. Rick fucks him like he's trying to carve out a space for himself inside of Daryl, tearing him open and leaving him raw and split apart. Daryl wants to claw at him, to goad him on, but he can't because of how they're positioned, so he clenches up to try and draw Rick deeper, keep him inside for longer, and bears Rick's weight as Rick desperately uses his body, chasing the high.

"You feel so fuckin' good," Rick growls into his ear, biting his neck when he's done. Daryl's throat will be littered with bruises and he can't help thinking of how Lori and Shane will react when they see them. Maybe Rick is thinking about it too, and that's why he's making them so dark and so plentiful. "Better than I imagined."

"You thought about this?" Daryl growls, gasping when Rick's cock finds his prostate, the liquid heat feeling getting tighter and more frantic as he squeezes his cock, twisting at the head. He's starting to leak, and uses the slick to ease the way. There's lube on his thighs and dripping over his balls and he uses that too.

"The night I left you at the motel," Rick says. "I wanted to fuck you then, too. Almost did. I could'a stayed away, if you'd have just _stayed away_ -." He cuts himself off with a low, angry noise, wrapping a hand around Daryl's throat and squeezing. Daryl whimpers, tightening his hand on his cock. He's close, Rick is fucking him almost _perfectly_ , and the way his voice sounds when he's fucking Daryl is threatening to send him over the edge far too soon.

The bed is creaking, knocking against the wall, and Daryl doesn't give a shit. It's Shane and Lori next door. They'll hear it if they're still awake. Rick must know that. He doesn't seem to care either. Nor should he – neither of them have a claim on Rick or Daryl. It's like Rick said – they're the same, they have to watch out for each other, they have to -.

"Gonna come," Rick growls, tightening his hand on Daryl's neck and his hip, as though to hold him still and let Rick use him as he pleases.

"Do it," Daryl gasps, his voice weak from the abuse on his throat. "Fuckin' come in me."

" _Fuck_ ," Rick snarls, and fucks in harshly several more times, chasing the orgasm biting at the back of his neck. Daryl whimpers when Rick goes still, hand going so tight on Daryl's neck that he can't breathe for a moment. He feels Rick's cock twitch, and then warmth inside of him telling him that Rick has come. He strokes his cock frantically, gasping when Rick lets his neck go.

Rick keeps moving, rutting against Daryl's ass with a bruisingly-tight grip on him, and Daryl comes soon after, with a low whimper and spilling hot and wet over his hand and the sheets between his knees. He gasps, twitching when Rick keeps moving, until he's so sensitive and sore that it starts to hurt.

"Fuck, stop," Daryl says, letting go of his cock and pushing at Rick's thigh. Rick growls and fucks in one more time, almost for emphasis, before he pulls out and lets Daryl go. Daryl shivers when he feels Rick's come leaking out of him, staining his thighs and dripping down to join the mess the lube had made.

Rick pulls his underwear back up, then Daryl's, and manhandles Daryl onto his back. They're both breathing hard and when Daryl touches Rick, he feels Rick's heart hammering against his skin. Now that he can see Rick, he's amazed to see the aura of red hasn't lessened in the slightest. It's like Rick still wants to fuck him, wants to leap immediately into round two even though they're both exhausted and spent.

Rick kisses him harshly, running his lube-slick hand through Daryl's hair, until Daryl whines and spreads his legs, letting Rick close like they're ready to start all over. Daryl kisses back, biting Rick's lower lip gently and moaning when Rick ends one kiss, only to start the second one.

Finally, when both of them are utterly breathless and Daryl doesn't think he can bear another second, Rick pulls back and rests their foreheads together. He growls softly, brushing a hand through Daryl's hair, and presses his lips against Daryl's almost gently. Daryl's mouth is sore, his lips tingling, when Rick pulls away for the final time.

"I'm coming with you tomorrow," Rick says. "When you go to the bunker. I…I want to see them."

Daryl nods. Rick's hand is still in his hair, forcing him to lay on his side and face Rick in the darkness. Rick's breathing is steady but deep, like he's trying to lull himself to a calmer state through meditation. "Okay," Daryl says. "I'll bring you with me. I know Raphael and Gabriel won't harm you. Michael…Michael is hard to say, but if he didn't kill me then he won't kill you either."

"Are you sure?" Rick asks.

"God has commanded that I bring you to Heaven," Daryl replies. "Michael won't disobey his father's orders."

"I guess that's comforting," Rick huffs, but Daryl can hear the smile in it. Rick's fingers tighten in his hair, just for a brief second, and then Rick lets out another frustrated sound.

Daryl frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I feel like I can't let go of you," Rick replies. "Like if I do, I'll wake up and it'll all be a fever dream. Or somethin'. I don't know how to explain it." But he doesn't have to – the aura around his soul is still that bright, blistering red, but there's flickers of yellow in it, a small halo like the later parts of a sunrise.

"You don't have to," Daryl says. "I told you, you're stuck with me."

Rick huffs a laugh, the yellow changing from the slightly orange shade of fear to brighter, more balanced joy. "Well, I guess if there's anything a guy can count on, it's the Devil," he says. It's then that he seems finally able to let go of Daryl's hair, and slides his hand down Daryl's arm instead, coming to rest on his flank. He pulls Daryl closer until there's barely any space left between them, and Daryl tucks his head against Rick's shoulder and closes his eyes when he feels Rick's mouth press against his hair.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good weekend! I spent mine moving shit from the basement to the garage, moving myself into the basement, and moving my mother's office into my room. So that was fun. And I got absolutely no writing done. Oh well.

Dawn breaks brightly on the secluded cabin. Without the predatory undead around, Daryl can hear birds chirping at each other, can listen to the skitter and cracks of squirrels meandering the trees, searching for food before the hard winter starts to set in. The air is chill against his arms and face, but there's very little wind, so it doesn't bite at him.

He's sitting on the roof, knees bent and arms loosely wrapped on top of them, his heels against the roof. The trees are a pretty mesh of green, gold, and brown – darkening in color as winter starts to sink her teeth into the ground. Still, despite the cool air, it's humid. There's a storm coming, promising rain.

Nothing seems to have changed during the night. The cars and his motorcycle are where he left them. The glasses, which he'd recovered from the sink, are safely in his and Rick's room. His ass is sore and his neck twinges if he moves it a certain way from Rick's greedy hands and the large bite marks on the side of his neck. Rick has thoroughly marked him, where his hair and clothes can't hide it. He'll do it again, if his promises are to be believed.

Daryl doesn't doubt that. And he doesn't mind. In his former life he would have done plenty of bad things to have even a fraction of this satisfied feeling – he likes having Rick's attention, his devotion, he likes the thought of being in Rick's possession. Rick is strong, a killer, someone that Daryl would have followed if his soul was built the right way, once he'd gotten into Hell. Souls that shine that brightly, they're enthralling, and even the Devil can fall prey to light, like a moth to a flame.

Still, it troubles him. Rick had said he _had_ to. Like it was a compulsion. Like killing Negan, or confronting those kids outside of the Diner. It had worked out, but only because of Daryl's – or Lucifer's, he should say – intercession. Now Lucifer no longer has that power, it's just Daryl on his own now, so what could that mean for Rick? Michael and Gabriel had warned him about succumbing to his human side, about falling prey to the sins that had plagued him in his former life – but can he say he really would have felt the consequences of them, if his soul had always been like Rick's?

Maybe God knew. Maybe that's why He chose Lucifer for this mission all along. Daryl and Rick are the same, which means they can guide and guard each other, that they'll _listen_ to each other and follow, because they're the same – species, destinies, whatever you want to call it. Somehow their fates have become hopelessly intertwined and Daryl doesn't have any clue what it all _means_.

He needs to go to the bunker. He'll be able to get some help there, maybe.

He sighs and pushes himself to his feet. He's almost at the edge of the roof, where there had been a small, climbable amount of fence where he imagined someone had one tried to grow artful vines, when the front door slams open and he freezes.

"Daryl?!"

It's Rick, and he sounds panicked. Leaves crunch under his boots as he runs down the porch and looks around. Daryl's bike is still there, he can see Rick take in that information, relaxing somewhat, before he cups his hands to his mouth and yells for him again.

"Daryl!"

"I'm right here, Rick!" Daryl hisses, rolling his eyes when Rick turns and looks up at him. "Fuck's sake, calm down."

He climbs down the ladder and gets to the bottom just in time for Rick to circle the house. Rick grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against the ladder with a low growl, hard enough that Daryl winces and instinctively grabs his shoulders to push him back. The glasses are tucked into the front of Rick's shirt and jab awkwardly into Daryl's chest.

"How long you been up there?" Rick demands. His eyes are wild, his soul ringed in yellow and red fire. Anger, fear. Joy? Daryl hisses when Rick's fingers tighten in his shirt and he shoves Daryl back again.

"Since before dawn," Daryl replies, gritting his teeth and shoving Rick back so that Rick has to let go of him. "What's it to you?"

"I just – I didn't -." Rick looks down at his hands, his fingers curling. It's like he's never seen them before. His eyes are wide and Daryl can see the anger fading away, replaced by sparks of white and yellow. " _Fuck_ -."

Rick runs his hands through his hair and turns away. Daryl frowns and follows, one hand on Rick's shoulder turning him back around. "What's wrong?"

Rick shivers. "Fuck, I didn't mean to -." He bites his lower lip and this time, when he touches Daryl, his hands are much gentler. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. I shouldn't -."

"Hey, hey." Daryl reaches out and gently puts his palm against Rick's cheek, rubbing his thumb under Rick's eye. There are dark circles under his eyes, like he didn't sleep at all even though Daryl knows Rick had been dreaming when he left the bed. "Talk to me, c'mon. No secrets, right?"

Rick nods, breathing out harshly through his nose. "Right," he says. "I just – it's stupid. I woke up and you weren't there and I panicked."

"Panicked?" Daryl repeats.

"I mean, shit, Daryl – we're fightin' against the Goddamn _Devil_ , and a bunch of undead shit, and for all I know he could'a come in the middle of the night and taken ya, or you could'a sleepwalked and got turned, I don't fuckin' know, and I freaked out because I didn't know where you were and if you had gone, I wouldn't even know what to do to even _start_ lookin' for ya, and -."

He goes silent with another frustrated growl, tightening his hands in Daryl's shirt for a brief moment, his eyes on Daryl's bitten throat. He takes in a slow breath, like he had the night before, and lifts his eyes to meet Daryl's. They're so _blue_ , the color of pure contentment, the color of the sapphires in Samael's cave.

Daryl swallows and flattens his hand along Rick's jaw, then down to cup his neck. "I'm right here," he says, and Rick presses his lips together and nods. His aura is cooling, the frantic fear Rick had been feeling dulling down and fading away. The color is just as vibrant, red and teal meshing together in a way that should clash but strangely doesn't.

Rick nods, and then he pulls Daryl to him and wraps a hand in Daryl's messy hair, kissing him fiercely. Daryl doesn't fight him – he lets Rick shove him against the side of the cabin, much gentler this time, and press until they're flush together. Daryl moans softly, wrapping his arms around Rick's shoulders and digging his nails in as Rick kisses him, until they're both breathless and by the time Rick pulls back, Daryl doesn't even feel the cold air anymore.

"Is anyone else awake?" Daryl breathes, biting his lower lip when Rick rests their foreheads together. Rick shakes his head and Daryl nods. "You still wanna come to the bunker with me?"

Rick pulls back, pressing his lips together in thought, before he nods. "Lemme leave a note for Shane and Lori," he says, and Daryl nods and follows him inside. The pad of paper Daryl had given Carl is still there, and Rick scribbles out a quick note to Shane and Lori, and he grabs his phone, his machete, and his gun, putting them in their proper places on his body. Daryl slings his crossbow across his back and takes one of the knives they got from Robertson's house, and they head back out to the vehicles.

Daryl eyes his motorcycle for a minute, before he nods to Rick's car. "We should take that," he says. "Unless you're secretly a biker bitch."

Rick raises an eyebrow, chin lifting as though in challenge, but he smirks and doesn't take the bait. "Alright," he says, and heads to the car. Daryl huffs and shakes his head, grinning to himself, and slides into the passenger seat when Rick takes the driver's. He lowers the visor and takes the keys from inside it, starting the car with a low growl.

They follow the trail until they're almost at the road, where Daryl had hauled the box to from outside the bunker. "There," he says, pointing, and Rick nods and pulls off to one side. They're not _quite_ visible from the road, but Daryl feels a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, like he's being watched. Like he got the first time he came here.

They get out of the car once Rick turns it off, and Daryl nods to the glasses still on his neck. "Put those on," he says, walking towards the bunker door. Now that he has his sight, he can see clearly where the four-pointed star is, the arcs of orange light, the brown wings, the silver swirls.

Rick comes into view at his side and puts the glasses on, gasping when he sees what Daryl sees. "Wow," he murmurs, reaching out, his fingers curling just shy of touching the door.

"This represents the four Archangels," Daryl says, and reaches out to push his fingers against the star. "Samael," he says, and then gestures to the orange light above it. "Michael." His fingers brush the brown-gold wings. "Gabriel." The silver swirls. "Raphael."

"And they're…friendly?" Rick says, sounding unsure.

Daryl huffs. "Callin' 'em friendly would assume they gave a shit enough to hate you in the first place," he says. "Meanin' no offence by it, but it's kind of not their job to care about a single person unless God tells them to. They have bigger shit to deal with. 'S why we have shit like Seraphs, Cherubim, Guardian Angels…" He shrugs. "Middle management."

Rick huffs. "Sorry," he says, shaking his head. "This is all…just really fuckin' surreal."

"It's okay to be overwhelmed," Daryl replies. "That's kind of the whole point of angels. No one's going to listen to the word of God if His messengers don't draw attention."

Rick blows out a breath, and Daryl can see his eyes moving up and down from the side of the glasses. "So how do we get in?" he asks.

Daryl smiles and reaches forward, flattening his palm over the middle of the star. He pulls it down like before, then to the left, then the right, drawing the sign of the cross over the door, and it opens just as it did before. The light that had illuminated the space is still shining brightly and he winces when he steps inside. Luckily, the glasses help to shield Rick's eyes, and Daryl knows he'll be able to see the shine of angel grace on the walls like messy finger paint.

The door closes behind them as they step inside and the room gets plunged into darkness. Rick freezes, immediately on the defensive, and Daryl's hand snaps out before he can grab his gun.

"Don't draw your weapon here," Daryl warns. "This is a sacred place."

Rick lets out a quiet growl, but Daryl feels his arm go slack and his hand moves away from his gun. Daryl steps into the center of the room and Rick follows, able to see the flicker around Daryl's soul, so he knows where he is. Daryl feels calm and he's sure his soul reflects that, weak though it might be. He goes to his knees and smiles when Rick follows suit.

The air shifts, moves like dust and rock falling from a great, slumbering beast. He hears wings fluttering, hears a single beat of a heart, and sucks in a breath when the air grows damp and thick with heat. He raises his eyes and feels a touch on his chin.

"Gabriel," he breathes, and hears her laugh. She sounds more female again – since her job is done in Heralding the Apocalypse, she can take the form she prefers most, and Daryl is sure that if he could see her human form she would be back in that ridiculous cowgirl getup and with her gentle eyes and smile. As it is, he can see the shine of her brown wings and grace, like someone is showing him a reflection of it.

Rick gasps beside him. With the glasses on, he can see her too.

Gabriel smiles, and turns her head to regard Rick. "Rick Grimes," she says, solemnly. "Welcome."

"I -." Rick swallows hard, Daryl can feel Rick reaching out and trying to touch him. He laces their fingers together and squeezes. He understands – Daryl still, technically, has the title of Lucifer, and having been around God and Death and Gabriel for so long, he is used to the feeling of awe and power that Archangels elicit. Rick is mortal, and until recently had no reason to believe things like this even existed. It's overwhelming, to say the least. "Thank you."

Gabriel smiles, her teeth shining in the darkness.

"So, this is Rick Grimes." That's Raphael, his low voice like the gentle hum of a thousand voices in the most sacred prayer. Gabriel's hand moves away and Raphael stands in front of Rick. He's lined with silver like the mineral is laid deep into the dark grey face of a mountain. His wings shimmer and move like mercury. Rick's hand tightens in Daryl's almost to the point of pain.

Daryl nods and Raphael smiles. "I see, now," Raphael says.

"Stand aside," comes a third voice, powerful but not loud. It's like the growl of a tiger, paralyzing, and makes Daryl's heart jump in fear. He pushes himself to his feet and Rick follows suit as Michael comes into view, blazing that same burning orange, brighter than his brother and sister. His sword is visible at his side, ringed with fire.

Rick makes a low sound of fear and takes a step back as Michael approaches. Daryl doesn't let go of his hand, so he can't run. He understands how Rick is feeling. Michael is the ultimate, the beginning of all angels that God created. His is the first born, the embodiment of righteousness and wrath, when God plagued Egypt in Exodus and exiled His children in Genesis. He is the angel of sacrifice, of justice, and of the law.

Michael burns brightly enough that Daryl can see the details of his face, still as the Asian man he had taken the first form of. His aura shines so brightly that the darkness seems to be ebbing away, illuminating the floor of the bunker, then the edges, then the forms of Raphael and Gabriel at either side of him. Soon, Rick and Daryl are standing in the bunker as though it's lit up, soft and orange light filling every space until the darkness is completely gone from it.

Michael smiles, and sheathes his sword, before he holds out a hand for Rick to shake. "Rick Grimes," he says, his voice gentler now. "Welcome."

Rick's hand is shaking, there's sweat on his brow, fear and wonder curled up like a giant snake around his soul. "Thank you," he says, and takes Michael's hand. A tremor runs through him as soon as their palms touch, and Michael's smile widens for a moment, before he lets go. Now that Daryl can see them, he can take in their appearances better. Michael is still in his all-black riot gear, the riot shield on his back, weapons strapped in holsters to his thighs, calves, and arms. Gabriel is feminine again, her hair brown now and cut short, framing her face, her eyes the same color as sea glass but mixed with the brown of her grace. She's wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, and Daryl sees a gun in a holster at her side. On her other side hangs a black satchel, holding something in the vague shape of a horn. He smiles and meets her eyes, and she winks at him.

Daryl has never seen Raphael take physical form. He takes the shape of a large black man, his head and face shaved, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt like Rick is. He holds no weapon, but his physical presence is intimidating. He smiles when Daryl regards him, and gives a nod of greeting.

Gabriel lets out a tutting noise, and when Daryl looks at her, she glances pointedly at the marks on his neck. Daryl's cheeks go pink and he ducks his head, looking at the floor.

"I've come to ask for your help," he says. "Again."

"Speak," Michael says.

"I… I don't know what to do next. Where to go, or who to trust." He glances at Rick and lets go of his arm. Rick takes off his sunglasses, tucking them in the front of his shirt.

Michael notices. "You've let him see," he says.

"Yes," Daryl replies. "And he told me that – what my soul is like." He looks at Gabriel, then Raphael, before going back to Michael. "Did you know? The truth about me? My _soul_?"

Michael cocks his head to one side, pressing his lips together. Then, he nods. "Yes," he replies, the confession soft. "I knew what you were."

" _What_ I am," Daryl spits, baring his teeth. "And _what_ am I, exactly? One of Cain's? Just like Rick?"

Michael frowns, his eyes flashing to Gabriel and Raphael. "Who was the Lucifer before you?" he asks.

"I never found out his name," Daryl replies.

"A man named Morgan Jones," Gabriel says. "He is resting in Sandalphon's library."

Sandalphon. Metatron's brother – the angel who is tasked with ferrying prayers to God. He is the guardian of Earth, the one who fights towards harmony and beats back dark forces for the sake of peace and prosperity. Daryl frowns. "Why is he there?" he asks.

"When his time as Lucifer was done, he asked Death where he was destined to go. When Death would not answer, he called upon God and God sent Sandalphon to help him."

"Wait…" Daryl says weakly. This was starting to sound incredibly familiar. "Was his soul…like mine? Like Rick's?"

Gabriel smiles, though it's sad. "Yes," she replies with a single nod of her head.

"Oh my…" _God_. Daryl cuts himself off, unwilling to take the Lord's name in vain, especially in current company. He rubs his hands over his face and cups them over his mouth and Rick touches his arm.

"What's wrong?"

"Morgan passed on his title, and God sent an angel," Daryl says. "God sent…sent me, and then Samael tells me it's time to give up the title as well, and our souls are all…" He lifts his eyes to Michael. "I don't understand," he says, almost begging. "Please. Help me understand."

Michael regards him with something like sadness. "I don't think you need our help," he says. He looks at Rick for a long moment, and sighs. "I warned you about this, Lucifer."

"Don't call him that," Rick demands. "He ain't the Devil anymore."

"He is, until someone else is," Michael replies coolly. "If my brother has his way, it won't be long."

"Help us," Daryl says. "I need to end the war, and Rick needs to stay alive. That's God's command. You can't go against it."

Michael blinks at him. "Do you think I would disobey my father?" he asks.

"Out of your love for Samael, maybe," Daryl replies. "Am I wrong?"

Michael frowns, and turns his face away for a moment. "I will help you," Gabriel says, stepping forward. She smiles and cups Daryl's cheek, then lets go and takes Rick's face in both of her hands. Rick flinches, like he expects her to hurt him, and only goes lax when she smiles and pulls his head down so that she can kiss his forehead. "I will send you guidance on the road ahead, and there is a road you must follow. You must find Samael before his power grows too great."

"How?" Rick asks, raising his eyes when Gabriel lets go of him. His eyes are wide and he looks awestruck.

After a moment, Raphael comes forward. "Lucifer, what do you remember of the End of Days?"

"Not much," Daryl mutters in reply. Rick lets out a low, aggravated sound at Daryl being called 'Lucifer', again, but holds his tongue this time. "The basics, you know."

Raphael lets out a disappointed hum. "Your predecessor didn't teach you much," he says, nodding his head in understanding. "When the dead rise, they will flock to the place where the Antichrist is. And God will send down His son to sway the righteous and good to His path, and that is where the final battle will take place. You must be there when it happens."

Daryl rubs his hands over his face, heaving a large sigh. "Fantastic," he mutters. "That could literally be anywhere."

"Well…" Rick starts, hesitantly, like he's trying to think the words through before saying them out loud. "If Samael is after me, for whatever reason, then he'll probably end up where I am, right?"

"Yeah," Daryl says, frowning. "But it's not safe here, then. We're too easy to surround where we are."

Gabriel looks over at Michael, who is staring at the ground, like a great weight is sitting on his shoulders. Daryl understands, as well as he can, anyway – Michael is torn between obeying his father, and the love he has for his brother. Samael and Michael were the first, the ones who played together before the world was even a spark in God's eye.

"Michael," Daryl says, reaching out to him. "I'll keep my word."

Michael looks at him, sighing through his nose, and closes his eyes. "You must go North," he says, opening his eyes again and straightening up. "But first, you will need supplies, and friends. We have given you all we can in that regard."

"Will you come with us?" Rick asks.

"No," Michael says, shaking his head. "We are needed elsewhere. We must prepare for the coming of the Lamb. But you will see our faces, and you will see our mark upon those you meet, and know that they are your friends."

"Thank you," Daryl murmurs, bowing his head in respect. He feels Rick look at him, before the other man follows suit.

"Go quickly," Michael says, reaching out and touching Daryl's shoulder. "End this soon, so that we may all join our Father in Heaven."

"Peace be with you," Raphael says.

"And with your Spirit," Daryl replies, but the words feel like ash on his tongue. The Archangels smile at him, and then the lights start to dim and they disappear with a flutter of wings, leaving them in the darkness.

After a moment, Rick huffs. "I get what you mean now," he says, and Daryl hears him putting on his glasses so that he can at least see Daryl's outline. "About the cryptic shit. Can't imagine how bad God is."

"They can't mess with free will," Daryl says. "But we both…we don't have that problem. I think. That's what God told me about you, anyway." He presses his lips together and sighs. "That's why I was sent. That must be why."

"Let's go," Rick says, and reaches out to take Daryl's hand, squeezing gently. Daryl manages a weak smile, and they turn and leave the bunker, sealing the door shut behind them. As soon as the door closes, Daryl turns back, eyes widening when he sees the mark of the Archangels fade from sight. He rubs at his eyes, but it doesn't reappear. The door is now a normal door, with a handle and a small grate of glass.

"North," he says, as they go back to Rick's car and climb inside. "I wonder what's North."

"From what I can tell, Hell itself," Rick replies darkly, turning the car on and pulling it around. "We need to make a plan. Avoid major cities, get all the supplies that we can." He looks at Daryl for a moment. "They said…they said that we'll see their mark on them. What will it look like?"

"Michael's is orange," Daryl says. "Gabriel is brown. Raphael is silver. These colors don't have sins associated with them. We'll know them when we see them."

"That's comforting, at least," Rick replies.

Daryl sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. His head is pounding, and he wishes he could visit God and speak to Him, to demand answers, to demand to know why his soul is built the way it is, why God would even deign to be in his presence if he is one of Cain's. He doesn't understand what it means for him – if he gives up his title of Lucifer, he can't get into Heaven, he can't get into Hell.

The fact that his predecessor had the same affliction is…intriguing. Maybe Lucifer _has_ to be built that way, so that he doesn't get eaten by Cerberus, or judged by Minos. It's the only thing he can think of that makes sense, and Rick is the first one of his kind that he's seen in all of his years as the Devil. Perhaps Death brought Morgan to him, because his time had come and Daryl was the only soul alive that could take on the mantle of Lucifer. Maybe Daryl's death had spurred the change – after all, for all the time that immortals have, they can be very impatient creatures. Maybe they couldn't wait until Rick matured past the childish stages of his blank, sinless soul. Children, after all, have no place in Hell.

 

 

They return to the cabin and go inside to see Lori, Shane, and Carl gathered around the dining room table, the radio that Shane found blaring out static as he tries to tune the station. Lori looks up, her eyes narrowing and soul curling with green and red at seeing the marks on Daryl's neck.

"Get anythin'?" Rick asks, prompting Shane to look up as well. If he feels anything at seeing Daryl's marks, his soul doesn't reflect it. It still burns brightly. Daryl wonders if Rick is so curious that he'll put on his glasses to see.

Shane sighs and shakes his head, rubbing a hand across his mouth and turning the radio off. "Nothin'," he announces. "Signal's too shitty out here."

Rick nods, resting his hand on the handle of his gun. "We need to move," he says after a moment of silence. "It's not safe here."

"Not safe?" Carl repeats, his voice small.

Rick sighs and takes a seat at the far end of the table, and Daryl sits next to him. "Carl," Lori says, standing. "Why don't you come help me make some breakfast, we'll leave your dad and Uncle Shane to talk."

She holds out her hand and Carl takes it, rising from his seat and following her into the kitchen. It's not far enough away that they can speak completely freely, but if they keep their voices low they should be able to talk.

"Rick," Daryl murmurs. "We need to tell 'em."

Rick nods, sighing. "Tell us what?" Shane asks, straightening in his seat.

Rick eyes his friend for a moment, his fingers curling around his sunglasses as he bites his lower lip, like he's considering putting them on, or maybe he's holding them as some kind of lifeline. Daryl can't say for sure. Rick is nervous, he can sense that. He presses his knee against Rick's gently in as much support as he can.

"I…got a confession to make, brother," Rick says quietly, his eyes falling to the table. "And it's gonna sound insane, so I just need you to sit and listen to all of it before you say anythin', you got me?"

Shane cocks his head to one side, his lips pressed together, before he nods. "Alright," he says slowly, his eyes flashing to Daryl as if he can read the explanation in Daryl's face. Daryl sighs and shakes his head, sitting back.

"So," Rick starts, and puts his hands together on the table, palms flat against each other. He doesn't look up from them. He sighs, and shakes his head. "Fuck, I don't even know where to start."

"At the beginnin', I'd guess," Shane replies quietly.

Daryl sighs. "Let me," he says, gently touching Rick's folded hands. Rick looks at him for a long moment, before he nods, and Daryl manages a weak smile before turning to face Shane. "Do you believe in God, and the Devil? Hellfire, brimstone, all that shit?"

Shane blinks, like that's the last thing he expected to hear. "I…not really, no."

"Okay," Daryl says, nodding. "What if I told you it was all real?"

Shane presses his lips together, frowning. "…Okay…"

"Rick and I didn't meet consultin' on a case," Daryl says, and Shane nods like he suspected that all along. His soul isn't changing color, which is promising – no dark swirls of suspicion or heresy are coloring his soul. "I came to Rick a few days ago, before all this started. I told him God sent me, and He needed me to get Rick into Heaven."

"I…what?" Shane asks, shaking his head and letting out a weak sound of disbelief. "C'mon."

"Just hear him out, Shane," Rick snaps. "I didn't believe him either, not at first."

"Alright, alright," Shane says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Go on, then."

"You see, souls are built a certain way. So they can take on sin and shit like that. And Rick's soul is…different. God sent me to help him because the way his soul is built, he can't just go to Heaven or Hell. Neither of us can, I just found out." Daryl bites his lower lip, looking down.

"I don't understand," Shane says. "You…talk to God? And you can't get into Heaven? Ain't talkin' to God like some prophet-level shit?"

"I'm not a prophet," Daryl says, managing a weak smile. "I'm…well, _I was_ …the Devil."

"The D-. What?" Shane demands.

"I died, twenty years ago. Drunk driving accident. When I died, the Devil before me came to me and offered me the position, and I took it. I've been the Devil for all that time. And God came to me and told me I had to help Rick, and I said if I did, I wanted to be taken off the job. I don't want it anymore. And God agreed."

"What the _fuck_ , Rick?" Shane whispers, his eyes wide. He's looking at Rick like he's insane, like he can't believe what he's hearing.

"When I was trying to help, I went deep into Hell – the darkest, coldest part of it. I spoke to Samael, the original Lucifer, the original Devil. And when I did, he took my power from me, and he rose the dead. That's why the Apocalypse is starting – Samael is here walking the Earth, and he's comin' after Rick."

"Rick, c'mon," Shane says weakly. "You don't…y'ain't buyin' into this, are ya?"

"I've seen it, Shane," Rick says, finally raising his eyes. "I didn't believe him either, not at first. But the things I've seen…"

"Some people with a fucked-up combination of bath salts and the flu virus ain't a Goddamn _Apocalypse_ ," Shane growls, his fingers curling into fists. "What the fuck am I supposed to make of this, huh? Even if it's true, you're fuckin' the Goddamn _Devil_."

"Daryl saved my life! He saved all our lives!" Rick snaps. "Can you imagine what might'a happened if we were out on the job when it hit? What might'a happened to Carl, at school? Or Lori?"

"Rick…" Shane shakes his head. "You're insane. Both of you."

"I can prove it," Rick whispers, and reaches for his glasses. He unhooks them and hands them to Shane. "Put 'em on."

Shane frowns down at the glasses, but takes them and slides them into place. "Look at us," Rick says. "Look at Lori. And Carl."

Daryl watches as Shane looks them over, his brow furrowed. Then he turns and looks over his shoulder at Lori and Carl. From the side of the glasses, Daryl can see Shane's eyes widen, and he hurriedly takes the glasses off. His soul is swirling with yellow now – fear and trepidation.

"That's…" Shane clears his throat. "That's a cool magic trick, I'll give ya that, but it ain't -."

"It's _true_ , Shane," Rick presses. "It's all true. I didn't believe, but I've seen it with my own eyes. I've _felt_ it."

"Felt it," Shane repeats, sliding the glasses back. "Felt _what_ , exactly?"

"I've met the Archangels," Rick says. "The other three."

"Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael," Daryl says when Rick hesitates on the names. "They've agreed to help us."

"Help us with _what_ , exactly?" Shane demands.

"We have to find Samael," Daryl says. "We have to fight him."

"Fight…the original Devil," Shane finishes, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "And the Goddamn walkers. Are you fucking kiddin' me, man? You expect me to believe all this?"

"I don't know what I can do to convince you," Rick says quietly. "Just…just trust me. Can you trust me?"

"Is he _that_ good at suckin' your dick that you're willing to believe all this bullshit?" Shane demands, glaring at Daryl. The anger is there now, the darker shade of wrath coloring his soul so suddenly that Daryl blinks and leans back, like it might physically reach out and attack him. "Rick, think of your fuckin' _family_. You're talkin' about goin' off to fight the Goddamn Devil and you have a guy claimin' to be him sitting right here – how can we trust a single word he says? He might be lyin'!"

"You don't think I've thought about that?" Rick demands. "You don't think I've considered every angle? You know me better than that."

"I thought I did," Shane says, darkly.

Rick blinks at him, sitting back like Shane tried to throw a punch. Daryl can see in the fires around Rick's soul how hurt Shane's words have made him. He stands and grabs Rick's hand.

"It's a lot to process right now," he says, far more kindly than he feels. "Let's give him a minute."

Rick looks at him, before he presses his lips together and nods, swiping the glasses and holding them in a white-knuckled grip. "Let us know when the food's ready," he says.

"Sure," Shane replies, sounding defeated and tired. Daryl tugs on Rick's hand and Rick gets to his feet, both of them going upstairs in the same way men might have walked up to the hangman's noose, centuries ago.

Rick enters the room first and puts the glasses down, and waits until Daryl closes the door to heave a huge sigh. "Fuck," he mutters, pressing his closed fist to his mouth, his other hand on his hip.

"Well, all things considered, I think that went pretty well," Daryl says lightly.

Rick glares at him. "Shut up," he commands. His eyes rake Daryl up and down, and he lowers his fists and bites his lower lip. "Get naked."

Daryl raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?" he asks. "Right now?"

Rick nods, once, slowly. "Yeah," he replies. The aura around his soul is a dark red, angry and frustrated, but his eyes are burning. "Right now."

Daryl bites his lower lip and looks at the door. "I don't think we should -."

"I don't give a shit," Rick growls. He circles the bed and grabs Daryl, pushing him against the closed doors of the wall closet. "You're either with me, or you ain't. Are you with me?"

Daryl shivers, wrapping his fingers around Rick's wrists where they're pressed against his chest. "I'm with ya," he murmurs, and Rick smiles, dark and promising.

"Then get naked," he says, and lets Daryl go, taking a step back, waiting for Daryl to obey. Daryl shivers again, goose bumps rising on his arms, and takes a hold of his shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it drop to his feet. Rick gives a nod of approval, his hands going to his gun belt and sliding the machete free, before he takes off the belt and sets it down on the bedside table.

Daryl takes off his jeans and underwear, baring himself completely to Rick's gaze. Rick lets out a low growl and grabs his shoulders, pushing him back against the wall. He kisses Daryl roughly, grabbing his hair tightly and holding him still. Rick has taken his shirt off, his bare skin warm against Daryl's.

Then Rick pulls back and hauls him onto the bed. Daryl falls against it, the mattress squeaking under his weight, and Rick crawls over him with another low growl, shoving him down onto the mattress and kissing him fiercely. Rick kisses like he intends to devour Daryl where he lies, like he wants to consume in that primitive way all men do.

When he pulls back again, Daryl is breathless, his cheeks and chest turning pink from arousal. Rick grins down at him and wraps a hand around Daryl's cock, stroking with almost punishing tightness. Daryl hisses, biting his lip to stop a low whimper escaping, and he reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of Rick's neck, pulling him down into another kiss. Rick's jeans are abrasive on his sensitive skin, his thighs, still tacky with lube and come, ache when Rick grinds between them.

Rick growls and bites his lower lip, rearing up and letting go of Daryl's cock so that he can turn his attention to his own clothes, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans and pushing them down his thighs along with his underwear.

Daryl bites his lower lip, shoving himself up on the bed to give Rick room. Rick sheds his clothes quickly and chases Daryl, pinning him down like Daryl is fighting him, trying to escape. Daryl doesn't want to escape, but there's something dark and angry around Rick's soul now and it unsettles him more than the black mirror-like surface is.

Rick kisses him, forcing his tongue inside to taste Daryl, and growls softly as he shoves a hand between Daryl's legs and presses a finger against his rim, as though testing the stretch and whatever slick might still be there. Daryl hisses – it hurts, his body was virginal before Rick fucked him last night and hasn't had time to recover properly – but he dares not refuse.

Rick breaks the kiss, growling low, and knots his free hand in Daryl's hair to yank his head to one side. He bites at Daryl's jaw, hard enough that Daryl is sure there will be another bite mark there, lingering and red, and then he snarls into Daryl's ear; "You're not lying to me, are you?"

Daryl tenses, a shudder running down his spine. He licks his lips. "No," he says, more sacred than a wedding vow. "What would I lie about?"

"I have no idea," Rick says. He presses more insistently with his finger, piercing Daryl's body and Daryl whines, clenching up to fight the intrusion. His nails go to Rick's shoulders and dig in tightly. "You said it yourself, though – the Devil can do all kinda shit when he wants to. You're here, seducin' me, turnin' my family against me…"

"Rick, I swear," Daryl whispers, something like panic welling up in his chest. He turns his head and Rick pulls back to meet his eyes. "I ain't doin' anythin' like that."

Rick holds his gaze, like a dog challenging another to the rights to rule a pack. He bites his lower lip, red from Daryl's kisses, and rakes his eyes down Daryl's heaving chest, then back up. He lets go of Daryl's hair and wraps it around Daryl's cock instead, stroking gentle and slow.

"I know," Rick breathes. "'Cause we're the same, ain't we?"

Daryl nods. "Fucked over by the powers that be," he says.

Rick huffs, shaking his head, and pulls his finger out of Daryl's sore ass. "Roll over," he says, and climbs off the bed. Daryl whimpers but obeys, sliding onto his stomach and fisting his hands in the sheets. He trembles when Rick's weight comes back to him, the other man straddling his thighs, the bottle of lube in his hand.

There's a second of hesitation, when Rick flattens his hand along one of the scars on Daryl's back. He hadn't been able to see it in the darkness, the night before. Daryl bites his lip and offers no explanation. Rick doesn't ask.

Rick is gentler this time, pouring the lube onto his fingers first and not straight onto Daryl's skin. He lets it get warm and then slides a finger against Daryl's rim, before he curls it and presses it inside. Daryl whines, shoulders tensing up, and gasps when Rick leans over him and bites him hard on the shoulder.

Daryl huffs, the sound turning into a quiet moan when Rick slides his finger all the way inside, curling down and brushing along Daryl's sensitive insides. He arches his hips up and then ruts back down, chasing the pressure of the mattress against his cock. It hurts, the way Rick is touching him aches, but he wants it. He feels it like instinct, a driving need inside of him to take everything Rick throws at him, like Rick is the lightning and Daryl is the stick of metal in the sand, and together they'll wreak horrible, beautiful destruction on anything that comes too close.

Rick leans over him and kisses the back of his head, forcing in a second finger alongside the first, suddenly enough that Daryl hisses and clenches up around him.

"Shh," Rick murmurs, nuzzling Daryl's sweaty hair. "I'm not gonna hurt you." And Daryl's shoulders tense up because Rick definitely _could_. Daryl is mortal now, as prone to any bite or bullet or swipe of a knife as Rick or Shane is. And Rick has the advantage over him because Daryl can't _hurt_ him. He can't risk jeopardizing his mission, of losing Rick's soul or his life. Everything hinges on Rick making it out of this on the other side.

Rick pulls his fingers out with another low growl, and flattens his hand on Daryl's shoulder, shifting his weight so that he's straddling Daryl's thighs fully, his hard cock slipping between Daryl's cheeks. "You ready?" he asks, and Daryl isn't entirely sure one way or the other but he's not going to deny Rick now.

He nods, shoving himself onto his elbows since he can't go to his knees, and Rick cups his throat, holding his jaw as Daryl turns and accepts the harsh kiss Rick presses against his gasping mouth. Rick nips his lower lip, then his ear, before he tightens his grip on Daryl's throat in a way that makes Daryl's cock twitch and his body tremble.

Rick arches back until his cockhead slides against Daryl's hole, before he starts to push in with a low groan. Daryl moans, biting his lower lip and ducking his head as much as he can with Rick's hand still wrapped so tightly around his neck. He's sure it will leave a bruise.

Rick fucks into him slowly, in one smooth thrust, and it aches. Daryl isn't stretched enough or wet enough but Rick doesn't seem to notice, and he's too out of his mind with desire to care. He moans softly, nails digging into the sheets, and lifts his head when Rick tugs on his neck and places another kiss on Daryl's throat.

Then, Rick lets him go so he can flatten himself to the bed and Rick plants his hands on Daryl's wrists, fingers wrapped tight, pinning him down, and he starts to move. It's brutal and fast, the bed knocking against the back wall loud enough that Daryl is sure anyone walking by would hear them. Rick doesn't seem to care and frankly, Daryl doesn't either. They're the _same_ , thrown together by some Cosmic Plan or fucked up twist of fate and Daryl feels, suddenly and strongly, the possessiveness that he sees in Lori's soul, the love that is reflected in Shane's.

Rick is a man who conjures these feelings, who draws out the jealousy, and wrath, and all the evil things that make men want to claim and ravage. He is everything West suffers with, everything that God condemns, and he is here, with Daryl, claiming him but being claimed just as easily in return. Daryl twists his hands, forcing Rick to let go, and shoves himself upright, forcing Rick back.

Rick snarls and Daryl turns, catching him when Rick lunges for him and pins him onto his back. "You're gonna look at me when you fuck me," Daryl growls. Rick bares his teeth and kisses him, shoving Daryl's thighs apart and pinning him down. He takes hold of his cock and guides it back inside Daryl's body, his skin sweaty and red, and Daryl's moan is lost in another kiss as Rick fucks into him hard enough that their bodies collide with the loud sound of skin hitting skin.

"This what you wanted?" Rick demands, the aura around his soul now that burning, blistering red it had been the last time they fucked. It's not wrath anymore, but lust and excitement and satisfaction. Daryl growls and bites Rick's lip in answer, hard enough that he knows it hurts.

It just seems to goad Rick on. Daryl has always been good at goading people. Rick wraps a hand in his hair and kisses him harshly, then bites at his jaw, his neck, leaving another dark mark to join its brothers. Daryl growls, wrapping his legs around Rick's waist, and digs his nails into Rick's back, dragging them up and leaving dark red lines behind.

Rick shudders, his cock twitching inside of Daryl. Daryl's sore body lets him feel it. He draws back, eyes wild, mouth open and gasping, and shoves his hands under Daryl's thighs, forcing him to fold in half and Daryl growls, one hand dragging and leaving biting nail marks in Rick's chest, the other stroking his cock quickly in time with Rick's thrusts.

"Gonna come, Daryl?" Rick says, and it sounds like a threat.

Daryl bites his sore lower lip and nods, whining when Rick fucks deep inside him, circling his hips, and Daryl gasps when he feels Rick's cock brush against that sensitive spot inside of him. "Fuck," he gasps, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "Do that again."

Rick smirks, a low rumble in his chest almost like a purr, and obeys Daryl's desperate command, drawing back and sliding into Daryl's body at the same angle, as best as he can match it. Daryl whimpers, tightening his hand on his cock.

" _Fuck_ ," Rick growls, fingers going tight in Daryl's thighs when Daryl clenches up around him. He leans up and looks at the ceiling, heaving a deep breath. "You feel too fuckin' good. I never wanna stop ruinin' you."

"Fuckin' prove it," Daryl bites out. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Rick regards him, breathless, sweat darkening his hair and making it curl at the ends. He lets go of Daryl's thighs and collapses over him, kissing him harshly and Daryl moans, stroking his cock more urgently as Rick pounds into him. He doesn't give a shit about the noise, about the sounds of the bed knocking against the wall, about every desperate whimper and moan coming from Daryl's wrecked throat. Daryl rakes the nails of his free hand across Rick's back and Rick shoves in one last time before going still.

"Fuck, I'm comin'," Rick whispers, breathless and wrecked, and he grabs Daryl's hips tightly and slams deep and hard, coming with a low groan and a shudder over Daryl. Daryl moans, wrapping his hand in Rick's sweaty hair, and tugs Rick's head to one side so that he can lean up and bite Rick's red neck.

Rick jerks, a wrecked, loud moan falling from his lips, and that does it. Daryl tenses up, bearing down on Rick's cock as he comes into the damp, hot air between their stomachs. Rick growls and ruts in as deep as he can, chasing the tightness of Daryl's ass around his cock, his nails digging hard into Daryl's hips as Daryl keeps his teeth in Rick's neck, forcing him to stay where he is until Daryl is done.

Daryl lets go of his cock, breathing heavily, and releases Rick's neck, licking over the sore spot before Rick sits up and Daryl lets him go. They're both panting, ruined and wrecked from fucking, and Rick is looking at him like Daryl just showed him the entire world sitting in the palm of his hand.

Rick pulls out, wincing when his cock slides out of Daryl's body, and Daryl bites his lower lip, clenching up and shivering at the feeling of sweat and come on his thighs and stomach. He sits up and Rick collapses next to him, his back to the headboard.

Daryl runs his tongue over his teeth and thinks of his cigarettes. He could really go for one right now. He scratches at the insides of his wrists.

"You know, the feelin's mutual," he says after a moment. Rick looks at him. "About…not wantin' to stop."

"Given my track record, that probably means we should," Rick says with a heavy sigh. "But I'm not gonna."

"Same here," Daryl replies. He looks over at Rick. "I've been lied to, the entire time I thought I was just in the wrong place, wrong time. But now…fuck, maybe I was always meant to be Lucifer. Maybe you were always meant to be the one Samael comes after. And I don't like that."

"And here you were goin' on about God's Almighty Plan."

"Fuck that," Daryl bites out, wiping his hand over his face and up through his hair. "We got the advantage. God told me He can't see souls like ours – that because Samael holds the contract, things like free will and destiny don't apply to us. So fuck it. Fuck it all."

"Don't let your holy friends hear you talkin' like that," Rick says, his smile wry and wide.

Daryl huffs, biting his lower lip. "We need to start movin' soon," he says, looking to the door. "You think Shane'll come around?"

Rick goes quiet, considering it for a moment. "Once he sees it," he replies, sounding unsure. "He hasn't seen it yet, that's the thing. He's a…visual guy. He needs to see something to believe it."

"This would be a lot easier if I still had my powers," Daryl murmurs. "I could show him the truth, like I did with you."

"You managed to convince me just fine," Rick says. "Do you think we could convince one of the others to come to us, to tell him the truth? I've…never felt anythin' like that before, what I felt in the bunker. I think he'd have to believe us, if we showed him that."

"Maybe," Daryl says. "But the Archangels don't just show up for any Joe Schmoe who asks for 'em."

"What's the point of praying, then?" Rick asks, and Daryl knows he's not expecting an answer, but the question triggers something in Daryl's memory. He frowns, looking towards Rick but not _at_ him, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Prayers," Daryl says, his voice a whisper. "That's it! We'll pray to Sandalphon. We'll ask him to bring us the guy who was the Devil before me."

"You know, your track record with previous Devils hasn't gone so well."

Daryl huffs and rolls his eyes. "You're an asshole," he mutters.

Rick shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah," he says, grinning widely. He winks at Daryl and Daryl rolls his eyes again.

He pushes himself to his feet and grabs his clothes from the floor, hissing when his lower back, ass, and thighs ache sharply when he moves. His clothes are sweaty and smell stale, but they don't have a washing machine, and probably won't have access to one for some time, so he should get used to the smell of ripe clothing and people. He stinks of sex and Rick smells no better, but there's nothing they can really do about that.

Rick gets dressed as well, and as Daryl reaches for the door, Rick grabs him and spins him around, cupping his face and kissing him harshly. Daryl touches his neck, over the bite mark he left, a mix of satisfaction and desire curling in his gut when Rick flinches from the touch, too sensitive for it, and growls.

Daryl smirks at him and jerks his head back to the door. "Ready for round two of "It's the end of the world"?"

Rick huffs. "Sure, sweetheart," he says, gesturing to the door. "Lead the way."

 

 

"You know I really don't appreciate you flaunting this… _relationship_ you have in front of me and your son."

Daryl rolls his eyes, staring into the bottom of the coffee mug he had filled with water from the sink. Rick and Lori are in one of the back rooms that Daryl assumes, at one point, was meant to be another bedroom but never got around to acquiring a bed. As it is now, there's some storage and camping gear packed away but not much else.

Shane had taken Carl out to go try and find some more firewood, leaving Daryl alone with Rick and Lori in the cabin.

"My relationship," Rick mutters, loud enough for Daryl to hear. Daryl can practically taste his eyeroll. "What, so it's okay as long as it's you, then?"

"Rick -."

"You don't even try hiding it from Carl anymore," Rick says. "He's not stupid, Lori. He knows you and Shane are together now and I don't care about that, honestly I don't, but you can't be up on your high horse and spout shit about loyalty and whatever else when you're doin' the exact same thing."

"It's _different_ ," Lori hisses.

"How, exactly?"

"Well, first off, you and I _know_ Shane!" Lori says, and Daryl has to give her a nod to that, because she has a point. "We've known him longer than Carl's been alive, _he_ knows and trusts Shane. You can't come home with a guy who looks like he comes from the back of a truck stop _whore_ catalogue and say it's the same thing!"

"Lori, I swear to -." Rick cuts himself off with a low growl. Daryl can picture him now, pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing his hand over his mouth, through his hair. He wonders if Rick touches the mark Daryl left on his neck, if he can still feel the lines Daryl's nails left on his back and chest. "If it weren't for Daryl, we could all be dead or worse. He saved my life, and I trust him. I trust him with you, with Shane, _and_ with Carl. Why can't you do the same?"

"Shane spoke to me," Lori says. "He told me you…you've been sayin' some crazy things. Have you told Carl any of it?"

"No," Rick replies. "I don't want to scare him."

"Well, you're terrifyin' the shit outta me," Lori hisses. "And I can't imagine what Carl's gonna do when -."

"When, what?" Rick growls. "When the dead start walkin', when they surround us and attack him?"

"That's _not_ going to happen," Lori says coldly. Daryl can imagine her, hands on her hips, weight on one foot, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "We're safe here. We can lie low, just wait it out, and -."

"You've gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," Rick growls. "We barely have enough food for a week, not to mention ammo, clothes, blankets. And we have to go North."

" _North_ ," Lori growls. "What's North then, hmm?"

Daryl lifts his head as Shane and Carl come in through the front door. Rick and Lori fall silent. Shane and Carl freeze, laden with branches and sticks for a fire. Carl's eyes are wide and Daryl lifts his gaze to Shane. He presses his lips together and jerks his head towards the back room.

"They're in there," he says.

Shane nods. "Hey, Carl, why don't you put these all down in the basement and try and stack 'em neat as you can, okay? I gotta talk to our friend here." Carl nods, gathering up as much as he can, and heads into the basement. Daryl hears Lori and Rick start up again, much more quietly this time so that he can't hear what they're saying.

Shane sighs, putting his hands on his hips, and regards Daryl for a long moment. Then he goes into the kitchen and grabs a camping mug, filling it with water, and comes back to sit across from Daryl at the table.

They sit in silence for a long while, sipping their water and listening to Rick and Lori argue in murmurs too soft and low to hear.

Then, Shane sets his mug down and cups his hands over his mouth. Daryl meets his eyes, then looks away. "So," he says, and Daryl clears his throat and nods.

"So," he replies.

"What're they arguin' about?"

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "Me," he replies. "Our next move. Nothin' I wouldn't expect."

Shane nods, pressing his lips together. "So, Daryl," he begins, sighing heavily and placing his hands, facing each other, on the table. "I'm gonna level with ya." Daryl cocks his head to one side, and nods. "Whatever your business is with Rick, I don't care. Rick's a grown man, he can handle himself. I don't think you could get him into trouble so deep he can't get out of it, you know?" Daryl frowns, and nods. "But it ain't just Rick you're messin' with here. I got a woman and a kid to protect just as much as Rick does. And I gotta know what your angle is."

"My…angle," Daryl repeats flatly.

Shane nods. "Look, I get it. Maybe your family's got beef with the cops, maybe you figure someone goin' through a divorce, lookin' for a little side action to make himself feel better's an easy target. Like I said, Rick's a grown man. But now there's…there's other shit to consider."

Daryl takes another sip of his water. "Did you see the walkers?" he asks. "When we stopped in the road, when the oil tanker was blocking the way, you saw them? Didn't you?"

"I don't know what I saw," Shane says, jaw clenching. "All I know is there was a block and then suddenly there wasn't."

"And you can explain that, huh? Easy as pie?"

"Stop changin' the subject."

Daryl sighs, rubbing his hands through his hair. "I don't know how to convince you," he says. "I don't know what to say, or do, or anythin' like that. I don't have the powers of the Devil anymore, just the title, so I can't really…I can't _hurt_ you, if that's what you're afraid of. I'm flesh and blood now, same as you. Same as Rick."

Shane opens his mouth to reply, but then the door to the back room slams open and Lori strides out, tears staining her cheeks, her face pale with angry grief. She freezes when she sees Daryl and Shane, and glares at Daryl with enough hatred that Daryl thinks War would be proud.

Rick follows her out and reaches for her hand, but she shakes the touch away. "Don't fuckin' touch me," she hisses, wiping at her face. "Shane. Get Carl. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Shane repeats, standing. His eyes flash to Rick. "Why?"

"Because Rick's lost his Goddamn mind, that's why!" Lori snaps, her voice going high-pitched and loud.

Daryl goes still, lifting his eyes as he hears a low rumbling sound. "You can't leave," he says, standing and staring at the ceiling.

"Why the fuck not?" Lori demands.

Daryl holds out a hand, asking for silence, and cocks his head to one side. "There's a storm," he murmurs, and looks over to Rick. "It's not safe to drive in this."

"Nah," Shane says, weakly, disbelieving. "I was just out there with Carl. Clear as -." He cuts off and Lori jumps as the loud crack of thunder breaks the silence. Daryl can see, through the window, the bright flash of lightning that follows soon after.

Carl comes running up from the basement, pale with fear, and flings himself against Rick's leg. "Dad, s'lightning," he says, hugging Rick tightly around the waist.

"I know," Rick says, kneeling down and holding Carl close. He stands, picking up the boy like he weighs nothing. "Don't got nothin' to worry 'bout. Just the angels playing bowling."

Daryl snorts, grinning at the image of someone like Metatron _bowling_ , but doesn't protest it. Lori is glaring at him openly, like the weather is somehow Daryl's fault. Shane puts a hand on her shoulder and she shrugs it off, before she storms up the stairs, making as much noise as physically possible, which is an impressive amount, Daryl thinks, considering her small frame.

Daryl goes to the window and Rick hands Carl off to Shane. Shane hesitates for a moment, before he sighs and pats Rick on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry for what I said before, brother," Shane says quietly.

Rick manages a weak smile. "We should all get some rest," he says. "We can move after the storm's passed."

Daryl doesn't see Shane's expression, but he hears Shane go up the stairs. He flicks the curtains to one side and turns his head when he feels Rick's presence at his side.

"Coincidence?" Rick hazards.

Daryl shakes his head. "An intercession," he replies, looking out and wincing when another bright flash of lightning splits the blackened sky, following by another rolling boom of thunder. "We need Shane, Lori, and Carl. We need them to stay with us. That's why they sent us a storm."

"Who?" Rick asks.

"Raphael, most likely," Daryl replies. "He always liked to watch the clouds."

Rick breathes out shakily. "Not gonna lie, Daryl," he says. "I have a really bad feelin' about all of this."

Daryl nods, smiling when Rick takes his hand and laces their fingers loosely together. He lets the curtain fall back into place and squeezes Rick's fingers, before he lets go. "C'mon," he says, putting his free hand in Rick's hair and pulling him into a chaste kiss. "Go get your glasses, and I'll show you the weapons I brought. Now that you can see, you need to know what they can do."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Ed being a douche as usual.

They go down into the basement. The window in the far door lets in a single streak of grey light, and Daryl can see the rain falling and obscuring the forest from sight. It's so dark outside, almost like nighttime, and the air in the basement is cold.

Carl's pile of firewood sits on the far wall, piled up as neatly as a child can pile uncooperatively-shaped twigs and branches, but Daryl is optimistic, when combined with the pile of firewood and starters they'd gotten from the welcome center, that they'll be able to have enough firewood to guarantee a source of warmth and light, should they still be here when the worst happens.

He goes to the box and Rick follows him, his glasses in place over his eyes, and they both kneel down in front of the box.

Daryl opens it, swallowing hard when he lets the lid rest against the back wall, and sits back on his heels to regard the weapons. Rick gasps, curling his fingers over the edge of the box as he leans over to get a better look.

"Is that…?"

Daryl nods, biting his lower lip. "That's Michael's sword," he says. "Or one of them, I think."

Rick frowns. "I thought you said Michael's color was orange," he says.

"It is."

"Then…I mean, I guess it's _kind_ of orange, but that's not…" Rick trails off, gesturing to the sword again. Daryl regards it for a long time. There's a glow around the sword like it's being lit from within, and yes, there are definitely flickers of red coloring the aura, but Rick is right – it's not _exactly_ orange.

Now that he looks at it more closely, it looks a lot more golden than any other weapon inside of the box. He presses his lips together and sits back. "If it's not Michael's, there's only one other angel's it could be," he says.

"Do you think it'll hurt us?" Rick whispers.

Daryl sighs, shaking his head. "Only one way to find out," he mutters, and reaches for the handle.

"Woah, wait -!" But Rick can't grab him in time, before Daryl's hand closes around the grip of the sword. Immediately his hand seizes up, like his skin is wet and sticking to an icy lamp pole. He can't break free of it, and he gasps, falling to his knees and bracing himself over the box. "Daryl!"

Daryl grits his teeth, clenching his eyes tightly shut as the icy feeling crawls up his arm like a slow-moving horde of ants. They're biting him every single step of the way, piercing his skin. He feels blood running down his arm. He sucks in a harsh breath but he can't _breathe_ , it's like he's back in the lake of ice and the surface of the ice is crushing his ribs, making it impossible to breathe. He feels bones cracking and hears their loud snap.

He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. There's laughter, like a thousand children in play, bombarding his head. They turn to shrieks, and then screams, and when Daryl opens his eyes he sees Hellfire.

A shadow of a winged figure flits into view, out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns his head to look, it's still in the corner, like his eyes are chasing it in circles. He closes them again, too dizzy and hurt to focus.

A hand touches his chin and forces his head to rise. When he opens his eyes, Samael is there, grinning at him in a way so similar to his brother's smile. He's beautiful, breathtaking and devastating in his beauty, his golden wings shining with power.

"Hello, Lucifer," he greets brightly. "Have you found my prize?"

Daryl jerks back with a gasp, and suddenly the fire disappears, with a harsh breath and leaving the scent of smoke in his mouth. He lets go of the sword and it clatters back into place in the box. His breathing is heavy and stuttering, his head full of ash. He turns his head to one side, cold and clammy, and fights the urge to vomit.

"Daryl! Daryl, what -?" Rick's voice is soothing, panicked but gentle, and he smooths a hand along Daryl's nape and squeezes gently. Daryl gasps, moaning in pain. His right hand is slick against the box and when he lifts his head, he sees the red shine of blood like something tried to peel the skin from his arm.

His palm is burning. He turns it over and sees that his skin has blistered and turned white in the center, red along the outside, in a terrible ice burn. He hisses, fingers curling, but he can barely move his hand without shards of pain wrapping around his wrist and hand like a barbed snake.

Rick sees it. His eyes widen and he gently runs his fingers down Daryl's wrist. "The…the sword did that?" he asks.

Daryl nods. The skin on his palm is glowing golden.

"No one can touch it," he says, looking at Rick. "Samael was there. He saw me."

Rick presses his lips together. "Do you think he knows where you are?"

"I'm not willin' to take that chance," Daryl replies. "We have to move, as soon as the storm clears."

Rick nods. "I'm sure that'll be soon," he says, and offers a small, secret smile to Daryl, like they're part of an inside joke at the expense of the universe. Daryl huffs, hissing when he tries to clench his hand and it burns.

"Come on," Rick says, cupping his face for a moment and then helping him to his feet. "We'll see if there's anything we can use in my folks' first-aid kit. If not, we'll get supplies when we leave, whatever we end up hitting first."

"Rick," Daryl murmurs, catching Rick by the hem of his shirt. Rick turns and regards him and Daryl bites his lower lip. "Thank you," he says. Rick cocks his head to one side. "For believin' me. For fightin' for me, when your family went against me. If it weren't for you I'd probably be dead in a ditch somewhere, or walkin' around like those things outside."

"Well, the feelin's mutual," Rick replies. "Maybe in another life it would'a gone down different, and I know I haven't known ya long, and half of that time I've hated your guts, but…I can't imagine a scenario now where you're not with me. I don't want to."

Daryl smiles, ducking his head at the warm feeling blossoming in his chest. It's affectionate, eager. It almost feels like God's love.

 

 

Daryl loses the fight with his self-control and succumbs to the need for nicotine about halfway through the day. It hasn't stopped raining, although the thunder and lightning have calmed somewhat. The rain is freezing cold and the air is humid and he's shivering, on his perch on the roof, his cigarette umbrella'd by his fingers as he takes another drag and lets the smoke disappear into the air.

His hand hurts, and he has his palm curled and up so that the rainwater hits his hand. It's Raphael's storm, meaning there is God and healing in the rain. It feels much better than running cold water over it had, and Daryl has no idea how to treat burns but he thinks if he sits here long enough, the skin might recover and he might be able to use his hand again fairly soon. The blood on his arm has been washed away and it seems like the burn is the only thing still lingering in terms of wounds.

Daryl looks up as a flock of birds take the air above him, squawking loudly. He tilts his head to one side and takes another deep breath from the cigarette, trying to listen to the sounds of the forest above the constant patter of rain and the distant rumble of thunder.

He remembers being out here, way back into his youth. He used to…he used to escape into the woods. He remembers that. His first bow had been his brother's, a shitty old thing that could barely shoot a deer at ten feet. The sight had been all fucked up and crooked but Daryl has always been pretty good at adapting. Adapt or die, isn't that the name of the game?

He sighs, and turns his head to one side when he senses a presence to his right. He smirks, pushing back his wet hair when he sees Metatron perching on the roof next to him. Unlike Daryl, who sits comfortably with his legs splayed out in front of him, knees bent and feet planted, Metatron perches like an owl, on the balls of his feet and standing upright. He has an umbrella in his hand to shield him from the rain, and looks utterly ridiculous, like the Godforsaken lovechild of Tweedle-Dee and Bob Ross.

He huffs, finishing off his cigarette with one last pull, and flicks the butt over the edge of the roof and onto the sodden grass. "You lied to me," he says.

Metatron hums. "I don't recall."

"You should have told me what I was," Daryl replies. "What my soul is like."

"When do you think would have been the most appropriate time for that?" Metatron replies.

Daryl glares at him. "I don't know," he snaps. "Ain't the whole point of you still bein' an angel and me fallin' is that you tell me what to do, now? A little Goddamn _warnin'_ would have been nice, instead of -."

"Your new Hell-bound lover telling you with the sight _I_ bestowed upon you?" Metatron finishes. He huffs. "Honestly, I think you might be the worst Lucifer we've ever had, and that's saying something."

"Startin' to think of that as a compliment," Daryl growls. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out another cigarette. His hands are shaking with anger and he uses his hurt hand to shield the little flame from Rick's lighter from the wind and rain, and lights his second cigarette, pushing the lighter back into the pocket of his jeans. He takes a deep inhale.

Metatron's eyes are on his hand. "You're hurt," he says.

Daryl sighs. "Yeah," he replies. "I touched Samael's sword."

"Samael's?" Metatron repeats.

"Thought it was Michael's, at first," he says. Then, he shrugs. "Learned my lesson, though."

"You can't have touched Samael's sword," Metatron says. "There wouldn't be anything left of you if you had."

"I ain't touchin' it again to prove a point," Daryl growls.

"No, you're not understanding me," Metatron says. He reaches out and grabs Daryl's hand, pulling it across to him. Raphael's rain has started to heal the edges, turning the reddened skin back to its original color, and it doesn't hurt as bad when Metatron touches his palm, but Daryl still hisses and curls his fingers. "No one but Samael should be able to touch his sword. Yes, it hurt you, but what I'm saying is you shouldn't even be _alive_ after touching it."

"Why?" Daryl asks.

"Samael is the original keeper of sin," Metatron says. "His power comes from man's sin. If you don't have the ability to _hold_ sin, then…"

"But it still hurt me," Daryl says weakly.

"Yes, but it didn't kill you," Metatron replies, letting his hand go. "I will ask our Heavenly Father what it might mean."

"Oh, hey, before you go," Daryl says, reaching out to stop Metatron as he rises to his feet. "Gabrielle told me that your brother knows the man who was Lucifer before me."

Metatron raises an eyebrow. "You'll have to be more specific," he says. His umbrella funnels the rain onto Daryl's shoulders and it's cold. Daryl rolls his eyes. "I have many brothers."

"Don't play coy," Daryl says. "You know who I mean."

Metatron nods after a moment. "I suppose I can spare the time for a quick trip," he says coolly. Then, he cocks his head to one side, and reaches down. His fingers touch Daryl's jaw, coaxing his head to one side to bare his throat, where Rick's bite marks stand out, dark and brash. He frowns, but doesn't say anything about them, and then he's gone with a flutter of wings and Daryl ducks his head to avoid getting rain in his eyes.

The weather is starting to clear and Daryl sighs, feeling the rain start to get warmer. Or maybe his body is just getting cooler, shutting down in an effort to preserve his body heat. He feels tired to the bone, he wants to sleep.

As he climbs down the ladder, he hears Rick approaching. The rain has really started to lighten now, and he turns around to see Rick regarding him, a soft smile on his face. Daryl answers it and Rick steps forward, cradling his face and holding him close. Daryl presses his cold nose against Rick's neck and shivers, only now aware of how cold he is when Rick's warmth pressed against him and around him.

"Are you okay?" Rick asks.

Daryl shakes his head. "Are you?"

Rick sighs. "I think I convinced Lori and Shane to stay with us," he says. Daryl nods – it would make sense, considering the storm is lessening. The ground is soft beneath Daryl's boots, slick with water. It will be hard for the dead to walk in this. "They're willing to go with us as far as North Carolina, or until we run into other people, other groups we're safe with."

Daryl nods. "More than I expected, if I'm honest," he says.

Rick huffs a laugh and pulls Daryl back with a gentle hand in his hair. He kisses Daryl lightly, warm lips brushing the rain from Daryl's mouth. "They'll stay with us," he says, firmly, like it's already been decided. "I know they will. Once they see what's really out there, they won't have a choice."

Daryl sighs. "Let's go inside," he says, and pulls back more to see Rick nod. Rick takes his uninjured hand and leads him up the stairs. There's a fire going in the living room, fighting back the cold and the darkness, and Daryl shivers. Rick grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and slings it over his shoulders.

"How's your hand?" he asks.

Daryl looks at his palm, flexing his fingers experimentally. "Raphael helped," he says. "It feels better."

"Good," Rick replies. "I found some burn gel and bandages. You think you'll need it?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"Alright. Sit here, warm up. I'll be right back."

Daryl smiles, plopping himself down on the floor in front of the fire and pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders. He stares at the flames, able to see the twigs and sticks Carl managed to get, combined with the jet-black Firestarter coals, and larger blocks of wood to keep the fire going piled up underneath. It's a good fire, well built, and he wonders if Carl is in the Boy Scouts or Cub Scouts or whatever the club is called these days. Or maybe Shane and Rick were, back in the day. It's a fire designed for light, not warmth. Whoever built it has never had to spend days at a time in the freezing cold, that's for damn sure.

The flames lick and dance along the wood like playful puppies, curl at the top like the lazy flick of a cat's tail. Daryl stares at the orange flames and is reminded of God's cat, fat and lazy and purring in Death's lap.

He startles when Rick puts a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention, and he looks up to see Rick smiling at him, before Rick settles into place at his side. "You shouldn't stare at open fire," Rick says lightly. "You won't come back out."

"Who did you hear that old wives' tale from?" Daryl asks, and holds out his injured hand as Rick sets a packet of burn gel and some bandages next to his thigh on the floor. Rick takes his hand and lays it across his lap, palm up.

Rick shrugs. "Just one of those things you hear, I guess," he says. His eyes flash to the fire, and he swallows, before looking away.

"My mama died in a fire," Daryl says after a moment, staring back at the flames. "I was…I was gone. In the woods. Came back to see the whole trailer up in flames, my daddy and brother standin' outside it and just watchin' it burn. I didn't know she was inside until later."

"I'm sorry," Rick whispers.

Daryl sighs. "She was a selfish bitch," he says. "But a damn sight braver than I ever was."

"I don't think that's true," Rick murmurs. "You're very brave."

"There's a difference between being brave and just not givin' a shit about the consequences," Daryl mutters, and hisses when Rick opens the burn gel and squirts it onto his palm. It feels cold and tingles against his skin, like when blood comes back to a limp limb too quickly.

The fire pops, crackling as one of the smaller pieces of wood snaps and collapses to the bottom of the pile. Rick flinches visibly, biting his lower lip to stop a low sound escaping. His hands tighten on Daryl's wrist and around his palm, and Daryl winces.

"…You're afraid of fire, aren't you?" he asks quietly.

Rick shakes his head, instinctive with his denial, before he meets Daryl's eyes, and looks back down again. He grabs onto a small square of cotton-ball-like material and smooths the gel over Daryl's palm, until it shines brightly on all the exposed skin.

"I don't like fire," Rick says. "I don't know if it's fear, but…I guess. I guess you should call it fear."

"Did you have a fire, too?" Daryl asks.

Rick shakes his head. "I don't know why I'm afraid of it," he says, his eyes drawn back to the flames like a moth. He seems fascinated by it, and Daryl remembers Shane telling him that Rick likes the arson cases, the murders. "I was never caught in one, never lost someone to it, nothin' like that. I just…"

"Sometimes we're just afraid of shit," Daryl murmurs. "Doesn't always make sense."

"Yeah, but if I'm going to Hell…"

"You're _not_ ," Daryl says. He puts his other hand over the back of Rick's, squeezing tight. Rick's eyes flash to him, wide and that same brilliant blue. "I'm not gonna let you down. You're not goin' to Hell, not if I have anythin' to say about it."

Rick presses his lips together. He looks down, and sighs, and reaches for the bandaging. He unrolls it and puts one hand flat against Daryl's wrist, over his pulse. "Hold it there," he says, and Daryl puts his fingers over the end so that it stays while Rick wraps the bandage around his wrist, until it lays over the end and Daryl can move his fingers away.

They sit in silence for a long time, Daryl watching Rick, Rick watching the bandage as he slowly works it up around Daryl's wrist, then over his thumb and across the burn. He puts pressure there lightly, but wraps it firmly. He's had to do this before, Daryl is sure of that.

"I'm scared, Daryl," Rick finally confesses, pulling the bandage around Daryl's fingers and wrapping it across his knuckles, before he starts back the way he came, across Daryl's palm. "I'm…I'm really fuckin' terrified. I don't even know where to start."

Daryl sighs, nodding. "I know," he says, and rubs his free hand over his face. "I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better, but I barely know what I'm doin' too."

Rick sighs and tucks the end of the bandage into the rest of the wrap, fixing it with a single safety pin to keep it in place, between Daryl's thumb and forefinger. Daryl's fingers flex and he smiles. It feels a lot better than it did before, and he's sure between the gel and Raphael's rain, it'll be healed in no time.

"Thanks," he says, and Rick smiles at him. His eyes drop to Daryl's mouth, then back up, before he sighs and looks back to the fire. Daryl doesn't pull his hand away, but keeps it in Rick's lap, and Rick gently wraps his fingers around Daryl's wrist, careful of the sore points on his palm.

Shane comes down the stairs a little while after, as sunlight starts to illuminate the cabin and the storm has gotten to the point where it's officially over. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes on their joined hands, before he sighs and comes over to the couch, sitting down with a heavy thud like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.

"How's Lori?" Rick asks.

"About as good as she can be," Shane replies, rubbing his hands over his face. He nods to Daryl's hand. "What happened to you?"

"Remember how I said some of the weapons I found needed special handlin'?" Daryl asks, and Shane nods. "Well, I meant it." He lifts his hand and smirks.

Shane's eyes widen. "You…did you cut yourself on it or somethin'?" he asks.

Rick shakes his head. "Daryl touched one of the weapons," he says. "It's a sword. Only certain people can touch it. It burned him. An ice burn. He only touched it for a few seconds."

"…He got burned," Shane says. "By a sword." He shakes his head and sighs. "You sure he didn't just grab a branch and call it -?"

"You know what? Fuck you," Daryl snaps, pushing himself to his feet with his good hand. "All I've done is try and protect you guys and -."

"No, you're trying to protect _Rick_ ," Shane replies, standing as well. He's taller than Daryl, and broader in the shoulders, and as he is Daryl is in no position to fight him, but he refuses to let himself be cowed. Shane's soul is burning so brilliantly red, like the center of a volcano, and it almost hurts to look at. "And I'm not even sure of that, either. I don't know what kind of sick game you're playin' but I'm not buyin' into it!"

"Shane, he's not _lying_ ," Rick says, sounding almost like he's begging. "Why can't you just fuckin' believe me?"

"Fine! Show me this magic sword, then," Shane demands, and turns and storms off towards the basement. Daryl gasps and runs after him.

"No, you can't touch it!" Daryl says, grabbing Shane's shoulder but Shane shrugs him off with a low growl and clambers down the stairs. "Rick, don't let him touch it. It'll kill him!"

"Shane, stop!"

Shane freezes at the bottom of the stairs. Daryl is a few steps above him, Rick behind him, but they all stop and come to a standstill, breathing hard. Daryl looks over his shoulder and Rick has his gun, out and ready, aimed at Shane's back. His hand is shaking.

Shane turns, his eyes dark with betrayal. "…So, that's how it is, huh?" he whispers. His eyes go to Daryl and there's just abject hatred and jealousy there, it's a wonder they don't turn green. He clenches his fist on the railing of the stairs and grits his teeth. "Guess loyalty don't mean jack shit to you anymore."

"I don't want to see you die," Rick whispers, weak like Shane just punched him in the throat. Daryl walks down the rest of the steps and puts himself between Shane and the box of weapons.

"Here," Daryl says, and opens the box. The sword is glowing just as normal, but he senses that Shane won't see the aura around it. He reaches down and pulls out the gun. It's a blessed weapon but doesn't belong to one of the Archangels. The ichthys is carved into the wooden side of the handle. There's a cross etched into the muzzle of the gun.

He holds the gun out to Shane. "You can touch this," he says. "It won't hurt you."

Shane regards him, dark with distrust, then he looks at Rick. Rick lowers his gun and holsters it, and Shane blows out a breath. He takes the gun in a swift motion and slides it from its holster. Daryl hands him the box of bullets that came with it.

"Go outside," he says. "Shoot somethin'. Anythin'."

Shane looks at him for a long moment, and then he goes to the door of the basement and undoes the lock, opening the door and stepping outside. Rick and Daryl share a look, before Daryl nods and leads the way outside. Shane has the gun loaded with a single bullet. It's a fine, silver weapon, and although it doesn't look like anything special, Daryl can see the energy in it. It's coloring Shane's hand, pale and molten.

Shane raises the gun and shoots. It hits a tree. Nothing spectacular happens.

Shane huffs and lowers his weapon, almost like he expected something to happen. He turns and raises his eyebrows. "Well?"

"Watch," Daryl says, nodding to the tree.

Shane rolls his eyes and turns back around. Daryl hears Rick gasp. The tree is…changing. Black and silver leach from the wound Shane put in its trunk, like a tentacled monster made of metal is crawling from the abyss within its body. The hole splits, grows, shatters the tree apart with a thundering cracking sound. Shane flinches, falling back, his eyes wide as the black tentacles start to burn. The tree goes up in flames, catching quickly despite Raphael's storm wetting it down. The fire doesn't care.

"Saint Elmo's fire," Daryl whispers. The fire is a bright, violet color, and it buzzes as it burns and consumes the tree.

Rick takes in a shaky breath. "I feel like it's on me," he says, and when Daryl looks down at his hands, he can see the mirror reflecting the violet flames. He curls his fingers, watching the purple mix with the gold of his burn. It's the colors of royalty, of the Prince.

He shakes his head and reaches out to Rick. "It's cleansing," he says, loud enough for Shane to hear. Shane is watching the tree as though mesmerized, like he wants to reach out and touch it. There's no heat coming from the fire, but the tree is burning nonetheless.

Then, the fire starts to dull, darkening to blue as it runs out of wood to burn. It dances in the light wind, the buzzing going louder like one last cry for help, and then it disappears, as though sucked through a void and into another world.

Shane and Rick gasp. The tree is still standing, a bright silver that shines as though the sun is gleaming directly through it. It's almost painful to look at, and the tree arches up proudly amongst its brethren. Every leaf, every branch, and every knot in the wood is replaced perfectly with silver like the best metalworker in the world spent three lifetimes taking painstaking care in detailing every crevice, jut of bark, and hole left by rodents and birds.

Shane lets his hand fall, limply holding the gun at his side. He's gaping openly now. Then, slowly, he turns back to look at Rick.

Rick offers a weak, hopeful smile. Like he's a stranger offering a dog food in the hopes that it'll stop growling at him. He holds out his hand, fingers curled, palm up, and Daryl can see the gentle brush of flames along his skin, purple and yellow with joy.

Shane stares at him for a long moment, before his eyes go to Daryl. His shoulders sag and he deflates, and slides his hand into place on Rick's forearm, letting Rick grab him in return.

"Do you see now?" Rick asks, letting go of Daryl to grab a tight hold of the back of Shane's neck. It's an intimate, familiar touch – one that Daryl knows Rick and Shane have exchanged many times in all the years they've known each other.

Shane nods, wide-eyed and meeting Rick's gaze. "I -." He swallows, and pulls back enough that he can look at Daryl. "Can I keep this?" he asks, holding up the gun.

Daryl smirks and nods. "It's meant for you," he says, and Shane looks down at it. "I'll teach you how to make the bullets, before we leave."

"Shane! Shane, where are you?" Rick and Shane pull apart and turn in time to see Lori slide to a halt at the basement door. She looks panicked, her face flushed and her eyes wide. "Someone's here."

Rick frowns, stepping forward. "Anyone we know?" he asks.

Lori shakes her head, her hair falling wildly around her. "Don't recognize the car," she says. "And who knows we're out here?"

Daryl presses his lips together, cocking his head to one side. He can hear a car, now that he's listening for it. He looks back at the tree. It was a spectacle, after all. Perhaps they weren't the only ones who bore witness to it.

"I'll go check it out," Daryl says. "Get back in the house."

"Daryl, I can't let you go out alone."

"Cover the window," Daryl says, turning when Rick grabs his arm, letting Shane go. "I'll whistle if I need you."

Rick looks uncertain, still, so Daryl smiles and touches his cheek gently, the bandage on his hand brushing over Rick's scruffy jaw. "I'll be okay," he says, and leans in to rest their foreheads together. "Just make sure no one touches that sword."

"I will," Rick promises, and then he lets go and follows Shane and Lori inside. After a moment, Rick comes back out and hands Daryl the machete. Then he closes the basement door and Daryl hears the lock slide back into place.

He walks around the edge of the cabin, machete held loosely in his left hand. He's not as good at wielding it but if these are just hapless people, then he's not afraid. And if it's something that isn't a person, well, he trusts Rick knows enough about what to do to have his back.

He crouches down and hugs the edge of the porch steps, looking up as a vehicle comes into view. It's a minivan, a dark brownish-gold color, like someone puked in the paint before putting it on the car. There's blood and black goo on the front and the windshield is badly cracked, the bumper and sides dented, and one of the wheels is flat. It smells like burning oil and rubber.

The car slows, and then comes to a stop. They've seen Shane and Rick's car, and Daryl's motorcycle. After a moment the engine turns off and the car dies, the hood popping as it cools, and the doors open.

"Sophia, stay close."

It's a feminine voice, and Daryl frowns, watching with narrowed eyes as he sees three people emerge from the car. One is a child, the black void of her soul new and full of promise. He's surprised to see a small aura of fear around her already, the kind that comes from birth, not emotion. She's been living in fear for a long time to already have the beginnings of a stain on her, so young. The woman is older, obviously her mother, her hair going grey and cropped short, her face worn with smile lines and worry marks in equal measure. Her soul is slick with yellow and blue, like fear and sadness are warring for dominance within it. But in the center, beats a heart of red – power, love, he's not sure which yet. The blue and the yellow hide the shade.

The third person is a man. He's big, meaty in the neck and arms. He burns with wrath, zigzagged across him like someone carved it into him with a knife. He's evil; Daryl can see that as clear as day. His eyes, beady and narrowed as they are, are dark and angry.

He grabs the machete tightly in his left hand and stays low to the ground. The woman reaches out and grabs the little girl's arm, holding her close, as the man approaches one of the cars.

"Ed, don't!" the woman says, clutching at the halves of her coat. There's a bruise, dark green and purple under her eye, and her eye is bloodshot and looks swollen. Under the skin, the mark of wrath lingers there – the man put it there, Daryl would bet his last cent on that.

"Shut up, woman," the man – Ed – replies, glaring at her over his shoulder. He goes up to Shane's car and runs his hand across it, bending down to look at the tires. He looks over at Rick's car as well. "These'll work," he says, gesturing to the tires, and Daryl rolls his eyes and stands.

"Hey there!" he calls, raising his injured hand in a wave and walking up so he's standing on the first step leading up to the porch. He hopes Rick is in position. It feels like someone's eyes are on him, but he has no realistic way of being sure.

The man straightens up and whirls around, his eyes immediately finding Daryl's machete in his other hand. He presses his lips together. He doesn't have a weapon on him that Daryl can see, but to think he'd be unarmed is foolish and naïve.

Daryl grins at him, plastering his best 'Lucifer' smile on his face, and nods to the minivan. "Car trouble?" he asks.

Ed straightens up, eyes narrowed, and puffs up his chest and shoulders. He's bigger than Daryl, and looks a lot meaner, but Daryl has a weapon. Ed's soul is marred with cowardice and anger, which makes him stupid, and makes him weak. Daryl takes a step down, his boots crunching in the leaves, and he smiles.

Then, the woman steps forward, her eyes wide and sincere. "We don't want any trouble," she says, resting a hand on the man's arm. The little girl is tucked tightly behind her legs, eyes wide and innocent in her pale face.

The man eyes Daryl critically. "Lotta vehicles here for just one guy," he says, low with suspicion.

Daryl grins. "Nothin' gets past you, does it?"

"Please," the woman says. "We'll just be on our way. We didn't mean to bother you."

Daryl cocks his head to one side. Granted, he does have a weapon, but there's only one of him and physically Ed is the guy to bet on in a fight. There's so much _fear_ in her soul, but it's random, lacking direction like a spooked horse in a corral.

Daryl lowers his weapon, pressing his lips together. "What're your names?" he asks, nodding to the woman and the girl.

The woman presses her lips together and looks at the man as though asking for permission to speak, and Daryl decides right then and there that he doesn't like the guy. Wrath isn't enough to condemn him, of course not, but between the bruise on her face, the way her soul is so thick with fear, and the look Ed gives her when Daryl asks for her name, Daryl knows he's not a good person. He would love to send the man to Minos himself.

"C-Carol," the woman finally says. She squeezes the girl's hand. "This is my daughter, Sophia. And my husband, Ed."

Daryl nods, taking another step forward. It's small and he tries to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible. "You guys seen what's goin' on out there?" he asks.

Carol nods, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "It was horrible," she says, pressing her hand against her mouth. "I almost -."

"Got your dumb ass bit, is what you almost did," Ed spits, and Daryl swallows back his growl.

Daryl smiles. "I got some friends inside," he says, jerking his head back. "Two men, a woman, and a kid a little older than yours." Carol manages a weak smile. "We were about to head North."

"What's North?" Ed replies curtly. "Seems like you've got a nice little haven here."

Daryl forces his smile not to waver. He tries not to look at Ed too long – his soul can't take on sin, can't feel wrath like a normal man, but perhaps the mirror metaphor extends farther than he'd thought. It's like he can feel Ed's anger, his hatred, the black vitriol pouring from his mouth like it's his own. His lips twitch.

"Family's North," he says. "You're welcome to come with us. Or, if you want, you can stay behind when we leave. We have extra weapons, and blankets, and stuff we're not gonna need on the journey."

"That's incredibly kind of you," Carol murmurs.

"Yeah," Ed says, suspicious, but his eyes are shining with opportunity.

Daryl nods again. "Let me go talk to my friends," he says. "I'll be right back."

And then he turns and heads into the house. He opens the door to see Rick, Shane, Lori, and Carl all gathered in the dining room. Carl is at the table with Lori, and Rick and Shane are standing on either side of the window. Shane is holding the gun Daryl gave him, and Rick has his pistol. Rick is wearing the sunglasses.

"Well?" Shane asks.

Rick lets out a low growl. "I don't like the guy," he says.

Daryl smiles tightly. "They won't be able to go far with that flat," he murmurs.

Rick looks at him. "You sound like you have an idea."

Daryl cocks his head to one side, smiling just a little. "I said we were gonna be headed North," he says, looking at Lori and Shane for confirmation and pleased when Shane nods. He's apparently seen more than enough to get on board, which is a good thing. Lori's jaw is clenched, soul burning green, but her shoulders are slumped in resignation. "I told him we have extra weapons and blankets, whatever we left behind they're free to have."

"What?" Shane demands.

Daryl huffs. "I was thinkin'…" He looks at Rick. "I think we should give the guy the sword."

Rick blinks at him, before he removes his sunglasses and frowns in confusion. "I don't understand," he says. "After what it did to you?"

Daryl gives him a meaningful look, his eyes flashing to Lori and Shane, before he sighs. "Metatron told me I should have died," he says, speaking lowly enough that only Shane and Rick can hear. Shane steps forward, blocking Lori and Carl from sight. "That it's because – because of the way our souls are made, Rick, that we can touch it. It'll hurt us, but it won't kill us. But it'll kill normal people. People full of sin."

"And you want to _give him_ this weapon?" Shane whispers.

Daryl nods. "I want to see him touch it," he says. "I wanna see what this weapon would do to an evil man."

Shane makes an uncomfortable sound. "I don't…" He shakes his head. "I don't know if I'm comfortable with that, man. How do we know he's evil? He might just be on edge. Hell, we all are."

Daryl regards Shane for a moment. "Rick, give him the glasses," he says, and Rick nods and hands them over. "Look at them outside, and tell me if you still think he deserves to live."

Shane frowns, but puts the glasses on and looks outside. Rick brushes a hand down Daryl's arm, squeezing his forearm right before the bandage starts. "It's not our job to decide who lives and who dies," Rick says quietly.

Daryl nods, sighing through his nose. "The sooner all the unrighteous are culled, the sooner this is all over," he replies. "And I don't look at Ed and see a righteous man."

Rick winces. "I wish you hadn't told me his name."

"I'll remember that."

Shane comes back from the window, shaking his head and wincing as he removes the sunglasses, like people do when they put on lenses with the wrong prescription. "Okay," he says, with a nod of acceptance. "Let's let the magic sword see what it makes of him."

Daryl smiles and nods in thanks. "I'll go tell 'em."

 

 

They let Ed park the minivan next to their cars, at the side of the house, and then help to haul them inside and get them set up on the couch in the living room. Through it all, Daryl knows Rick and Shane are keeping a close watch on Ed. They are cops, after all, and fiercely protective of Lori and Carl. Daryl knows that both of them are a single wrong word away from knocking Ed down a few pegs if he speaks out of turn.

Lori and Carol seem to make friends immediately, bonded either by suffering their men or by their children's similar ages. Sophia is shy, almost painfully so, but Carl is patient and kind in a way that reminds Daryl of Jesus. He smiles when he sees Sophia pick up one of Carl's markers and start to color in a sun in the corner of their shared sheet of paper.

Finally, Daryl deems them sufficiently moved in. He can tell Ed is burning with curiosity to explore and find all the hidden treasures waiting for him in the hidden nooks and crannies, but he's smart enough or scared enough to hold himself back and wait until they're asleep or there are less of them around.

"Oh, what a remarkable tree!" Carol says, looking out the back window of the kitchen to the silver tree. She puts a hand to her neck and smiles. "Did someone carve that?"

"In a sense," Daryl replies, coming to stand beside her. She offers him a shy, thankful smile.

"You have no idea how much you may have helped us by taking us in," she says kindly. Her eyes stray to his marked neck, then away, as though deciding who would have been most likely to make those marks, claiming Daryl so publicly. Daryl watches her soul twist in confusion, fear, anxiety. "Is the boy yours?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Lori and Rick are Carl's parents," he says. "And Rick's mine, now."

"Oh." Carol's eyes widen and she nods her head rapidly. "I see. That must be uncomfortable."

Daryl grins and shakes his head. "No more uncomfortable than anythin' else nowadays," he says.

At that, her smile turns strained, and she looks at the ground. "I suppose."

"Hey!" Ed comes into view, his hulking frame taking up most of the rest of the kitchen. "Why don't you make yourself useful and grab the beer from the car?" he demands, grabbing Carol by the arm and practically flinging her out of the room and into the next. She stumbles and collides with one of the chairs, startling Carl and Sophia. Sophia ducks her head and goes back to coloring quickly after, soul flickering with yellow, but Carl stares openly, wide-eyed and shocked.

"Oh, so sorry," Carol says, overly-brightly and smiling wide enough to show her teeth. "I'm so clumsy. I'll be right back. Thank you for reminding me, honey!"

Daryl thinks his eyes might actually turn black with hatred when Ed scoffs and shakes his head. "Women," he mutters. "It's a damn good thing I married her otherwise who knows where she'd be."

Daryl swallows hard enough that his throat clicks, and is glad Shane and Rick didn't see the exchange. They're downstairs, in fact, cataloguing the rest of the weapons and sorting the firewood. "Hey," Daryl says, clapping a hand on Ed's meaty arm. "Why don't I show you the shit we're not gonna take with us, so you can pick and choose what you need."

Ed grins and nods, and leads the way when Daryl gestures to the basement door. When he's out of earshot Daryl turns away and catches Lori's attention. "Lori," he whispers, and she clenches her jaw but nods, standing so that they can speak without the children overhearing. "No matter what you hear, don't go into the basement. Don't let the children go in either."

Lori's eyes flash. She licks her lips and bites the lower one harshly. "What are you gonna do to him?"

Daryl sighs and shakes his head. "Whatever we have to."

"Good," she says, and Daryl can't help but think that she would be much easier to corrupt than he thought. "Make the bastard bleed."

Daryl smiles. "You got it."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the posting delay! Work got crazy busy, and I'm going to be very busy over the next few weeks, so I apologize in advance for any delays/short chapters!

Daryl goes into the basement in time to hear Ed's raucous laughter. The man sounds drunk and Daryl winces, gritting his teeth, and closes the basement door behind him. He turns the handle up and twists the lock. It can lock and unlock from either side, but that extra second can make all the difference.

He goes down the stairs and sees Ed with his arm slung around Shane, holding him in a playful chokehold, and Rick's smile is strained and tight, he's ablaze with wrath, almost to the point when Daryl first met him, as Lucifer, when he'd confronted the man in the alley and saved those girls.

Rick's eyes flash to him, and although his forehead smooths out somewhat, the tightness in his smile doesn't go away and his eyes don't get any brighter. He's so angry even Daryl's presence can't reach him. Not right now.

"And then – and then!" Ed says, guffawing and letting Shane go to slap his knee. "The dumb bitch apologizes to _me_! Serves her right, clumsy as she is. She's always fallin' – into walls, stairs -."

"Your fist?" Daryl says, cutting through Ed's loud laughter with a hiss. This is the closest he's felt to being Lucifer since he fell. He feels powerful, and his hand is burning, and he looks at Ed and wants to gut him from nut sack to chin to see if the man's just as spineless as he appears.

Ed sputters, growling low. "The fuck you just say to me?" he demands.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "I think you heard me."

Ed's eyes glare daggers at Daryl, then Rick, then Shane. He doesn't say anything, won't dare do anything, because he's outnumbered and outgunned, but he wants to. _God_ , how he wants to.

Then, Daryl laughs. "But enough of that," he says with a wave of his hand. "Everyone gets what's comin' to 'em, right? Lemme show you the stash."

Ed's eyes light up and he grumbles but nods, and Daryl smiles and leads him over to the box. "We took everything outta here we think we're gonna need," he explains. "Guns, some knives, shit like that, but there's still some cool shit in here."

Ed nods, soul practically shining with lust. Daryl imagines him trapped in the circle of Hell with the burning coffins, or the constant windstorm that promised no rest for those batted about like balls of string between a cat's paws. He thinks about Ed's skin stripped from his bones and fed to Cerberus. He'd make a decent mouthful for one of the heads, at least.

Daryl kneels down and opens the box, stepping back. The sword is placed on top, obviously centered. Daryl's hand flexes and it feels like something is tingling under the bandage – not in the way wounds do when they heal, but the same sensation of butterflies in one's stomach, or the fluttery excitement when someone crests the first rise of a rollercoaster.

Ed gasps, grinning widely, and looks over his shoulder. "This is cool as fuck," he says, and then he reaches forward and wraps his hand around the sword.

Daryl doesn't know what it looked like when he touched it, but his eyes go wide as Ed lifts the sword without any apparent issue. He swallows and looks at Rick, who's gaping and looks just as stunned.

"You know how to use a sword?" Shane asks, and he's not sure if he's stalling or not but they can't let Ed out of the basement with that sword. Daryl wishes he had brought his bow down. None of them are armed enough to battle the massive weapon.

Ed shakes his head, and opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. He frowns, looking down at himself, and puts his free hand to his throat. His eyes are wide and roving around his skull, like he's chasing a mouse across the floor.

Daryl smiles. "There it is," he says, and feels Rick grab his hand and hold it tightly.

Ed opens his mouth to scream, but instead he chokes, falling to his knees and spitting up black goo from his mouth and nose. His face is turning red and it almost looks like it's shrinking in on itself. Daryl watches, breathless with anticipation. The sword is glowing, and as he watches, it's like a center of darkness starts at Ed's heart, spreading out, and the darkness is chasing the light of his sins, and going into the sword. The darker Ed gets, the more the sword glows.

Daryl sucks in a breath. His hand is burning, aching under the bandage. He lets go of Rick and steps forward.

"Daryl," Rick whispers. "What are you doing?"

"I…I have to," Daryl says, although he doesn't know what he says it. Rick must understand, though – there are compulsions they don't get yet, things that they simply have to do. Like Negan. Like Rick and Daryl, together. Some instinct, buried as Lucifer's charge or something deeper still, soul-deep in Daryl, is compelling him forward.

He comes to a stop in front of Ed and cups his reddened, black-smeared face in both hands. Ed's skin feels like sandpaper, but thinner, like the fluttery remnants of burned paper towels. He puts a little more pressure on Ed's face and it starts to collapse and break apart like egg yolks.

"Holy shit," Shane whispers.

Ed opens his mouth to scream and more black sludge comes out. It's the physical manifestation of his soul, as though it's been burned to a crisp and now his body is rejecting it, like tar, like poison. Daryl smiles, satisfied in some unnamable primal way at seeing this evil man suffer so terribly. He doesn't know where Minos will put him, but Daryl is sure that Ed is going in one direction: Down.

He digs his nails under Ed's eyes and Ed screams again, his skull caving in, crushed as easily as a bug on a windshield. His hand is still frantically clutching the sword and he can't let go, Daryl knows he can't let go because he's held it, too.

He knows the moment Ed dies. His body twitches in one final death throe, and then he goes limp in front of Daryl and Daryl steps back, wiping his hands on his shirt when Ed slumps forward.

Then, Daryl grabs one of the knives from the box and slides it through Ed's crushed skull. It goes as easily as a hot knife through butter, and then the connection between Ed's soul and the sword disintegrates and his hand finally lets go.

Daryl puts the knife through his belt loop, and regards the sword. The sword is no longer glowing, no longer bright with Ed's soul. He looks at his bandaged hand, bites his lower lip, and reaches for it.

Rick lets out a cry of alarm but Daryl is already touching it, and he holds it up. The sword hums, like a microphone with feedback, but it doesn't freeze his hand again and it doesn't hurt him. The bandages are cold, he can feel the chill through them, but they don't burn like they did before.

"That's it," he says, and looks down at Ed's body again. He tucks his fingers in the back of Ed's collar and yanks on it hard enough that the clothing rips. He wraps it around the sword blade and between his hand and the handle. "You were just hungry, weren't you?"

"…Holy _fuck_ ," Shane gasps, his eyes wide with fear as he looks at Ed's crumpled, disintegrated body. There wasn't even enough left for him to bleed when Daryl stabbed him through the head.

Shane runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head violently. "Fuck, oh my _fucking_ God," he gasps, and looks at Rick as though daring him not to react the same way. "What the _fuck_ was that?" he demands.

Rick shakes his head. He's shaken by what he's seen, of course he is, but he's had a little more time and a lot more truth to process than Shane has. "Did he…did he go to Hell?" Rick asks.

Daryl nods. "Metatron told me the sword is meant to…basically eat sin," he says. "When a soul so full of sin touches it, when it's all done, there's nothing left to consume, so the bearer dies." He frowns. "I guess, though, by that logic, then it means Ed wouldn't have any sin left and would get into Heaven. We should ask Michael when we see him next."

"God, I think I'm gonna be sick," Shane says, his face twisted up in an expression of disgust. He puts the back of his hand to his mouth and heaves, turning his face away. "That thing ain't fuckin' natural. I don't want it around _any_ of us."

Daryl nods. "As long as Rick or I are the only ones who touch it, it'll be safe to keep," he says. "Or children. Children can touch it."

"Carl's not goin' anywhere _near_ that thing," Shane growls, and despite everything, he can see Rick nodding in agreement. Which is fair – Carl is just a child, after all, and even if he doesn't have sin to eat, the sword may still hurt him.

Or, even worse, he may see Samael and Samael could find him.

He shivers at the thought, biting his lower lip, and sets the sword down once it's wrapped tightly in Ed's shirt. "What do we do about the woman and the girl?" Shane asks.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "As far as I'm concerned, they can join us, or they can stay here," he replies. "That ain't my priority."

"Right," Shane murmurs, running his hands over his face and up through his hair. "Shit. What do we even tell 'em?"

Daryl presses his lips together, scratching at the back of his neck. He could really use a cigarette right about now. "I don't know," he replies honestly. He looks over at Rick. "Maybe I can take 'em into town, and while I'm gone, you guys hide the minivan and tell 'em Ed took off without 'em."

Shane frowns, shaking his head with a sigh. "Maybe," he says.

"Or we wait until nightfall and say he got lost in the woods and never came back," Rick replies. "That's a lot less complicated of a plan, and it means you don't have to separate us."

Daryl can't help but smile. He's never had someone so attached to the idea of him being around before. It's nice. Rick's aura is a colorful mix of joy, satisfaction, and desire. Maybe he feels the same as Daryl does, right now – Shane had said Rick likes the murders, the violent crimes. Maybe it comes from more than just wanting to know what makes criminals tick.

Shane clears his throat and looks towards the basement door. "Hey, brother, did you bring a shovel with you by any chance?"

Rick shakes his head and sighs. "No."

"Alright. If push comes to shove I'll drive his body out somewhere when night comes. Let's get back up before anyone gets suspicious."

"You go," Daryl says. "If we all come up at once it'll look weird. Rick and I will stay. And lock the door behind you."

Shane nods. "Smart," he says, and then he rubs a hand over his mouth and shakes his head, trudging back up the stairs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

They wait until the door closes and Daryl hears the lock turn, sealing them inside, before he looks back at the sword and the weapons. The sword is faintly glowing again, and Daryl swallows and puts it back in the box, closing it with a quiet thud.

Daryl walks away from the body, glad that at least with the way Ed died, he's unlikely to start smelling, and he grins to himself when he hears Rick follow. Rick grabs him once he's near the door and spins him around, his nails at Daryl's wrists and pinning him to the wall.

Daryl lets out a low growl. "I knew you were fucked up," he says, "but this is a new level."

"Like you didn't like watchin' him die," Rick replies, just as quietly, just as low. He drags his nails down Daryl's exposed forearms, making him shiver and bite his lower lip. Rick's eyes are almost glowing in the light coming from the outside, through the hole in the door. Rick's gaze drops to his mouth, he lets out a harsh breath, and his fingers tighten.

"I did," Daryl confesses. "But I'm the Devil. I'm meant to like it when sinners go to their rightful place."

"And you saw it?" Rick asks. Daryl nods. "I wish I could'a. Not every guy can say he literally watched a man go to Hell."

Daryl smiles, and Rick returns it, before he leans in and kisses Daryl harshly. Daryl can taste Rick's excitement, smell it like cinnamon and spice, and he fights against Rick's hold until Rick lets him go and he can fist his hands in Rick's hair, tugging on it harsh enough to make the other man moan.

"I wanna fuck you again," Rick growls.

Daryl huffs. "Right next to the dead guy?"

Rick rolls his eyes. "Of course, not right next to the dead guy," he says, although Daryl suspects that if Daryl hadn't brought it up, it wouldn't have even registered on Rick's radar. Not that Rick would get off specifically to the proximity, but that he no longer even cares. "You gonna let me?"

Daryl swallows, nodding. "We can't go upstairs, though," he says.

Rick's eyes flash and he pulls back, raising his eyes to the window in the door. "Come on," he says, and takes Daryl's hand and opens the door. He pulls Daryl outside and towards his car. It's a typical Victoria, an older model of undercover cop car, painted a deep purple-black color. Daryl huffs when Rick turns towards it.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he says, shaking his head. "Rick, we ain't gonna fit in your Goddamn car."

"Not the car," Rick says, and turns around to grin at Daryl, pulling him to a stop in front of the minivan.

Daryl looks at him, his eyes wide. "You sick motherfucker," he says quietly, but it's not scolding. If anything, Daryl is impressed by Rick's dedication. He's not going to let something like murder and logistics stop him from getting what he wants.

Maybe it's the Devil's luck, coming into play. Daryl doesn't know, and frankly, he doesn't really care all that much either.

"You still game?" Rick asks, squeezing his hand.

Daryl licks his lips and looks back to the house, before he nods. "Yeah," he replies, and Rick's grin widens, eager and ready. "I'm still game. Come on."

Rick lets out a low laugh and yanks on the minivan's door. Daryl is a little surprised that it opens, but he supposes it's not like they have to worry about anyone stealing it. Rick climbs in first, crawling into the back seat that's a bench, between the middle seats with their arms raised.

Daryl follows him, sliding the door shut behind them, and straddles Rick's thighs when Rick pulls him close with a low hum. There's enough space in the aisle that Rick can stretch his legs out and he relaxes against the seat, smiling up at Daryl, lazy and content like a wildcat sunning himself on a rock.

Daryl leans down, knotting his hands in Rick's hair, and kisses him deeply. Rick's hands settle, big and warm on his flanks, fingers splayed out, and pull him down so that Daryl can feel Rick's erection grinding between his legs.

The windows are starting to fog up already, obscuring the view of them from anyone outside, but Daryl dares Shane, Lori, or Carol not to look outside and know exactly what's going on in the car. Daryl doesn't care. With Ed gone they have more than enough room in the cars and with Daryl's motorcycle to ferry everyone.

He kisses Rick again, growling softly when Rick tugs at the button and zip of his jeans and works them open, reaching into Daryl's underwear to wrap a warm hand around his cock and stroke tightly. "Fuck," he gasps, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Rick's shoulder as Rick touches him – light, teasing strokes that won't get him off but drive up the need, the heat in the car.

Rick puts his free hand on Daryl's neck, squeezing his nape tightly, and pushes up so that he can grind his cock between Daryl's thighs. "We're gonna need lube," Daryl growls, rolling his hips to put as much pressure against Rick's cock as he can.

Rick lets out a low, impatient noise. "Fuck," he says, then he shakes his head. "Don't care. I'll get in you later. Don't stop movin' like that."

Daryl shivers, biting his lower lip, before he opens his jaws and lays a huge, sucking kiss to Rick's neck. "I liked it," he said. "I liked watchin' him die, watchin' the sin leach out of him and leave him nothin' but dust."

"Yeah?" Rick whispers, tightening his hand at the head of Daryl's cock. Daryl is leaking steadily, his cock flushed and so hard it's starting to hurt. Rick drags his thumb through the wetness and smears it down and around the head of Daryl's cock, teasing at the sensitive underside. "What did it look like?"

"It was like, _fuck_ Rick, do that again," Daryl begs, whining when Rick twists his hand and slides it down to the base of Daryl's cock, then back up. "You – you ever seen water drainin' out of a pool, or anythin' like that?"

"Sure," Rick says.

"It was like that, but I felt – I felt it happenin'. I felt the energy, leavin' him. I felt his pain, his fear. I could _taste_ it." Daryl bites his lower lip and licks over Rick's neck, his jaw, before he lifts his head and claims Rick's mouth in another kiss. "I can feel you, too."

"Yeah?" Rick murmurs, gasping against his mouth. "Am I afraid?"

"No," Daryl replies. "I can feel when you want me."

"All the time," Rick says, and Daryl can't deny that that's true. What he'd thought was wrath had been that, he's sure of that, but lust as well. He's getting used to Rick's soul now, reading him just like his eyes and his expressions. "When I touch you, I feel like I can do anythin'."

Daryl kisses him again, unable to put into words what he's feeling, what he wants. He breaks the kiss with a growl and stands up as best he can in the car, his head pressed against the roof, and turns his hands to Rick's jeans, undoing them and pulling the halves apart so that he can free Rick's cock.

He lifts his eyes, catching Rick's gaze, and then slowly pushes back off Rick's lap. Rick's legs spread to make room for him and Daryl goes to his knees, wrapping one hand lightly around Rick's cockhead. "Fuck, Daryl," Rick growls, putting a hand in his hair, and Daryl smiles up at him, before he leans down and guides the head of Rick's cock into his mouth, sucking it down. " _Fuck_."

Daryl hums, guiding his tongue under the head of Rick's cock, and over the slit, before he lets Rick's cock go and sinks down on him further, taking more into his mouth. Rick's hand goes tight but he doesn't thrust, just lets Daryl control the pace for now.

Rick puts his other hand on Daryl's shoulder, fisting tightly in his shirt, and bites his lower lip to stifle the low snarl he lets out. Daryl flattens one hand on Rick's thigh, the other on his stomach so he can feel when it tenses and sinks in, when Daryl moves his tongue just right, or sucks with just a little more pressure. His jaw aches after a moment but he's determined to keep going. His mouth is wet, so wet that he can't keep all the saliva in, and it drips down Rick's cock and eases the way for him to take more, try and get Rick deeper inside of him.

When he'd touched the sword, after Ed's death, he'd felt the weapon's satisfaction. If it were a dog, it would have been licking its chops and panting with joy. He feels that way now, on his knees for Rick, desperate for the man's touch and the sounds he can pull, wrenched from Rick's chest.

He takes Rick as deeply as he can, until Rick hits the back of his throat and he starts to gag, tears forming in his eyes from the gag reflex. Rick groans, head falling back, and tugs on Daryl's hair to get him to pull back, then sink down again, building up a slow rhythm as Daryl lets his jaw go lax and lets Rick move his head how he wants.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me come, sweetheart," Rick says, almost in warning, but Daryl doesn't give a shit. If anything, it goads him on. He wants to drink Rick down, swallow him like holy wine. Blasphemous a thought though it is, he has never felt nearly as peaceful and content on his knees for God, or one of the angels. Rick is his master, now, the man he'll protect and follow until the end of days.

Rick goes tense, his thighs trembling, and his hand gets unbearably tight in Daryl's hair. Then, he's coming, shooting hot and wet into Daryl's mouth and Daryl seals his lips and swallows him down, humming, his eyes closed in contentment as he keeps still and lets Rick empty himself inside his mouth.

When Rick is done, he tugs on Daryl's hair and Daryl goes, releasing Rick's cock with a heavy gasp. Rick hauls him back into his lap and wraps a hand around Daryl's cock, kissing him fiercely like he feels the same need, the same desire to taste Daryl and touch him and soak himself in Daryl's mark.

Rick pulls back enough to slide his fingers in Daryl's mouth. Daryl gasps, but sucks on them, moaning at the look Rick is giving him – like he wants to eat him alive. Rick pulls his fingers out and wraps them around Daryl's cock again and the wetness makes it feel so much better.

Daryl groans, dropping his forehead to Rick's shoulder again, rutting forward desperately into Rick's hand. His nails dig into Rick's arms, tugging like he can get Rick even closer to him. He wants Rick _inside_ him, but they can't do that right now, but he _wants_ it. He whimpers, clenching his teeth when Rick slides his thumb underneath Daryl's cockhead again.

Rick bares his teeth and forces Daryl's head to one side, baring his throat, and bites down on his neck, making another dark mark blossom there. It's like Rick won't be satisfied until Daryl is completely claimed, like with every touch and every kiss he's pulling Daryl closer to mortality, to being Rick's one hundred percent. It feels like ownership in a way God never did, and Daryl doesn’t know if he can go to Hell for the thoughts alone, but if anyone is to put him there, it will be Rick.

Rick twists his hand and Daryl shudders, arousal and need spiking in the base of his spine. "That's it," Rick growls, encouraging and low. "Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. Mark me up."

Daryl whines, trembling, his thighs going tight on Rick's as he stills, and then comes with a loud gasp, spilling onto Rick's hand and his shirt since Rick didn't move it out of the way. He has marked Rick, visibly, everyone will know if they don't already. He purrs at the thought and nuzzles Rick's jaw, gasping as Rick continues to touch and stroke him until Daryl is spent and collapses limply against his chest.

Rick lets him go and Daryl slides off his lap, breathing heavily, his heart pounding. Rick lifts his dirty fingers to his mouth and licks them clean and Daryl lets out a low moan at the sight.

He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "You're gonna fuckin' kill me," he mutters.

Rick grins, eyes bright with satisfaction, and turns his head to regard Daryl. It looks like he wants to say a thousand things, but they don't need words. The emotion passes between them in silence, and Daryl presses his lips together and nods.

"I'll follow you anywhere," Rick murmurs, brushing a hand through Daryl's hair.

Daryl smiles, weak and lax. "Me, too."

 

 

They go back into the cabin once hunger starts to kick at their bellies and they can't reasonably stay out any longer. Carol meets them, frantic and worried. "Have you seen Ed?" she asks, biting her lower lip. "He hasn't come back up."

Rick and Daryl exchange a look. They can't see Shane. "He told me he had to take a leak," Rick says, the lie coming easily from him. "Haven't seen him since."

"Oh God, what if something's happened to him?" Carol says, putting a hand to her mouth. There are tears in her eyes, and if Daryl didn't already know better, he'd wonder how she can even care about what happens to her husband.

"I'm sure he'll turn up," Daryl says. "I can go look for him, though, if you want."

"It's getting dark," Rick says, and gives Daryl a meaningful look. "Too dangerous to go looking now."

Carol eyes them for a moment. She's a sharp woman, and Daryl imagines she has to be very good at reading men, to anticipate when the storm is coming, to know when to duck and hide away. "In the morning, then?" she says, and the way she asks it, Daryl is sure she already knows the answer.

But he smiles and nods. "In the morning," he says, and puts a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, guys," Lori says, breaking the silence and emerging from the kitchen, a large pot in her hand. "Dinner's ready, sorry sight though it is. Can you let Shane know?"

"Sure," Rick says, and goes upstairs to get Shane. Carl and Sophia are still in the dining room where they left them, and they all take a seat around the table. There are camping bowls and plates set for each of them. Daryl notices there is an obvious lack of place for Ed.

Carol sits by her daughter, smiling weakly and running a hand over her head. "So, how long have you all known each other?" she asks, too brightly, like suburban women do when trying to avoid uncomfortable topics.

Lori smiles back in the same way, sitting by Carl. "Rick and Shane have been best friends since childhood," she says. "I met Rick in high school – sweethearts, you know. And we had Carl. Daryl is…" She looks at him. "We've only known Daryl for a few days."

"Oh," Carol says, regarding Daryl with surprise. Daryl shrugs one shoulder and looks down at his plate.

After a moment, Lori clears her throat. "If it weren't for Daryl, we might have been caught up in it all," she says, and when Daryl looks at her she manages a small smile. "He saved my husband's life. All our lives."

"You're lucky to have a friend like that," Carol says in agreement. "I saw it when…I was driving Sophia to school, and there was an accident on the road, and I saw a woman walking down the side of it. She looked very sick, and a man came to try and help her and she attacked him." She shudders, pressing her lips together, and looks away. "I went home immediately. Ed was already there, packing our things. He was practically out the door by the time we got there."

Daryl frowns. "Sounds like he was ready to take off without you guys."

Carol smiles weakly. "He's my husband," is all she says in answer.

Shane and Rick return from upstairs and Shane takes a spot beside Lori, then Rick takes the seat at the head of the table, between Daryl and Carol. Daryl smiles at him and presses his knee against Rick, only realizing he had felt uncomfortable until Rick was back in the room. This is dangerous, _dependence_ , but he has nothing left in him to resist. Rick is _his_ , and Daryl will kill anyone who tries to separate them.

"So I believe you folks were going North?" Carol asks. Shane nods. "I don't suppose you have room for us, when you leave?"

"Of course," Lori says, smiling. "This is no kind of world to be alone in."

Carol breathes out a small, relieved sigh. "Thank you," she says, and then Lori stands and starts ladling out the food. It's rice and what looks like pieces of bacon and previously-frozen chicken. While the refrigerators and electricity still work, they can indulge. Daryl makes another mental note to look for wire and things he can use to make animal traps so they keep having access to meat.

"What's North, if you don't mind me asking?" Carol asks as they all start to dig into the food. It's good and warm, if a little bland, but welcome to Daryl's empty stomach. He's sure it's a sentiment felt by everyone at the table.

Shane, Lori, and Rick all look at Daryl. He clears his throat and takes another bite of food. "Safety," he says. "My…my brother has a group up there. They have walls, and people, and weapons. Enough to last for all of us, he says. We'll be safe up there."

Lori presses her lips together, frowning, but doesn't add anything.

Shane looks at Rick and Daryl again. "Hey, Carol," he says. "We have a sword downstairs. It's this big, ugly looking thing." Daryl frowns. He has never seen a more beautiful sword in his life, except for maybe Michael's. "But it's really important that none of you guys touch it, okay?"

Carol blinks at him. "Oh, I have no interest in swords," she says, still with that suburban brightness. "Sophia, make sure you don't touch any of the weapons, okay?"

Sophia looks up, eyes wide, and nods.

Shane smiles at her, then turns his attention back to his food. "We need to make another supply run, on the way," Rick says. "There should be plenty of stuff to pick at on our way up, if we keep to the main roads."

"Do you think that's wise?" Lori asks. "The evacuations will start soon, if they haven't already."

"Michael promised to clear the way for us," Daryl says before he can stop himself. He freezes, clearing his throat when Rick nudges him under the table, his eyes wide. "I mean, once we hit farther North. We just gotta get there."

"Is Michael your brother?" Carol asks.

"Yes," Daryl replies. The lies are making his food taste sour.

"Well, that's good news!" Carol says. "It's good to know there's something waiting for us on the other side."

Daryl bites his lip to hide the noise he wants to make. He wants a cigarette. He finishes his portion in another few bites and sighs, sitting back. "Is there anything else in your car we need to grab, before we move?"

Carol thinks for a moment. "No," she says, her eyes on the small pile of belongings by the couch. "Ed and I grabbed everything, I think."

"We should take the tires," Daryl says. "For spares."

"Good plan," Shane replies with a nod of agreement.

Suddenly, Sophia lets out a loud yawn, holding the back of her small hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle it. Carol gives her an affectionate smile and stands, her plate clean. "Well, thank you again, so much. All of you. I don't know what could have possibly happened if -."

She stops, pressing her lips together, and smooths down her shirt. "Well, I think we're going to hit the hay. Come on, darling." She holds out her hand for Sophia, who goes with a sleepy murmur to her mother's side.

"I think an early night is in order for everyone," Lori says, standing as well. "Carl, come help me with the dishes and then we'll go to bed."

"Okay, mom," Carl says, pushing his drawings to one side with his markers and joining Lori in the kitchen. Shane, Rick, and Daryl carry the plates in and set them in the sink. Shane kisses Lori chastely, once, petting a hand through her hair.

"You gonna help me too?" she asks, smiling playfully. It's the first time Daryl has seen her soul color with genuine happiness. It's a nice color for her, bright and yellow. He smiles as well and turns away when Shane makes a show of rolling his eyes, but helps with the dishes, and Rick and Daryl go back to the dining room.

"They make a cute couple," he says.

Rick smiles, looking back over his shoulder at Shane and Lori. "Yeah," he replies, gently. "He's a damn sight better for her than I ever was."

Daryl scoffs. "Well, you married her," he says. "Must'a been somethin' she liked about you."

"I think she just liked that I was tall," Rick jokes, but Daryl knows he's joking. "And my eyes. She always said she liked my eyes."

"They're nice eyes," Daryl says with a nod of agreement. Rick's cheeks turn pink and he looks down, smiling softly. "When I was on the roof, I asked Metatron to talk to his brother, Sandalphon."

Rick frowns, thinking, before he remembers the source of the name. "You think he'll bring the Lucifer before you?" he asks.

"Probably not. It's majorly frowned upon to bring a soul back out of Heaven. They've earned their rest there, you know?"

"I guess," Rick says, nodding. "But it would be nice to meet him."

"How you figure?"

"I don't know," Rick murmurs, shrugging. "I guess I'm still kind of looking at this like a case. Lookin' for patterns. If there's something that determines who the next Lucifer will be, maybe…" He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. Sometimes I think that knowing all the answers will make this whole thing easier to deal with."

"I just don't think I'm gonna like the answer," Daryl says, shifting his weight. He sighs and rubs a hand over his mouth. "Let's sleep. I'm exhausted."

"I like wearin' you out," Rick says with a cocky grin.

Daryl rolls his eyes. "Careful," he says. "Or I might just turn the tables on you and we'll see how _you_ like it."

Rick's eyes flash, dark and promising, and he smiles and grabs Daryl's arm and pulls him into a kiss. "Promises, sweetheart," he says. "Let's go to bed."

 

 

Dawn finds Daryl back on the rooftop, but he's not alone. Rick is sitting with him, the two of them trading off occasionally on Daryl's cigarette. Rick takes an inhale about every fifth one, barely enough to exhale any smoke, but he's sitting in silence and enjoying the cool air and it feels nice.

He hums, taking another drag, and blows out smoke in the shape of an 'O'. Rick smirks and shakes his head, tilting his head so that it rests against Daryl's shoulder. "I don't want to leave," Rick confesses, closing his eyes.

Daryl sighs. "I know," he says.

"When we leave, it's real," Rick continues, like he didn't hear Daryl speak at all. "We might lose people. And it feels like we're walkin' into a gunfight with toothpicks."

Daryl bites his lip, swallowing back the reply he wants to give. Mentioning things like God and faith won't convince someone like Rick. "I'm not gonna let anythin' happen to you," Daryl says, low with promise. "Or your family."

Rick sighs. "You can't promise that," he says.

Daryl finishes the cigarette with a final inhale, before he flicks it down and watches it roll down the slant of the roof and into the gutters. He turns his head and kisses Rick's hair, closing his eyes when he feels Rick shiver against him. Rick isn't used to the cold, not like this, when it's just humid enough to fool you and just cold enough to get dangerous.

"We should go," he says. "There's nothin' for us here."

Rick nods, reluctantly pushing himself to his feet when Daryl stands. He grasps Daryl by the forearm and lets himself be hauled upright. Daryl brings his knuckles to his mouth and kisses them, pleased when Rick smiles.

They climb down the ladder and go to the basement, and haul the box of weapons out and into Rick's trunk, where they'll be safe from wandering hands. Shane's truck carries most of their bedding and camping equipment, covered with a thick tarp from the camping store, and the food goes in Rick's trunk and backseat where it'll be the safest. Food is the most precious thing they have nowadays.

Shane must have told Carol what happened – or at least, the story of what happened to Ed – because she doesn't even ask about him. If she is still worried, she gives no indication. There's just an extra line of resignation across her mouth, a sadness in her eyes that Daryl knows will fade away eventually. She's better off without the bastard, of that he has no doubt.

Daryl has his crossbow against his back and one of the knives from the box slipped through his belt. Rick has his pistol and the machete, and one of the knives from the box. Shane has the blessed pistol, his own weapon, and a third knife. Leaving Lori, Carol, Carl, and Sophia with smaller weapons. Non-projectiles.

They don't have the luxury of leaving anyone unarmed.

Daryl kicks his motorcycle into gear and swings around to a stop by Rick in the driver's seat of his car. Carol is in the passenger seat with him, Sophia in the back with Carl. Lori is riding in Shane's truck, since there's only really enough room to comfortably sit the two adults.

Rick smiles at him. "You know where we're goin', sweetheart?" he asks.

Daryl grins. "Absolutely no idea," he says. "Let's go."

 

 

 

Daryl leads the charge out of the wooded area and onto the main road leading up to it. If they get on 51 and head towards Clermont, they'll hit the I-85 highway and can head North from there. But that's risky – it's two-lane roads with heavy enough woods to make it dangerous between where they are and where they're going. And if the panic and evacuations have started already, the highways are going to be the first things to become impassable.

He trusts Michael to clear the way for them, as he said, but there's still no guarantee that they'll make it there untroubled.

He sends up a prayer as he turns down the road, towards signs directly him to the highway. There are small pathways leading from either side of the road to cabins and houses that are either occupied by terrified people, or hosts for the undead. He can see flashes of gold through the trees and does his best to ignore them.

He crests a hill and skids to a stop with a curse, his hand tightening on the brakes of the bike hard enough that the thing screeches and Daryl jerks it to one side to get it to stop, almost falling off it and swinging his leg over before it can crush him between the ground and the hot metal of the exhaust pipe.

Rick's car stops with a small, protesting squeak from the brakes, and Daryl straightens and looks down the hill as he hears the car's gears shift into park, and then Rick gets out of the car.

"What's happening?" Rick asks.

Daryl bites his lip and nods towards the bottom of the hill. The woods break, melting into flat farmlands for a long while before starting up again, the road cutting through like a single like of red. There's blood everywhere, and sliding through it like leeches through mud, is the undead.

"Do you have your glasses?" Daryl asks, and Rick nods, holding them where they're hanging from the neck of his shirt. "Put them on."

Rick does so, letting out a harsh, terrified breath. Daryl knows what's he seeing. "That's Samael's color," he says. The gold is beautiful, as brilliant and enchanting as the angel who made it. Rick takes off his glasses again, as though scared to see what Daryl sees. "We have to turn back."

Rick looks over his shoulder. "There's no room to pull the truck around," he says. Daryl presses his lips together. It's true – with the beginning of the farm, the road had gotten very thin so that only one car can go comfortably at a time. Shane's truck has no hope of turning around, and if they try, they'll get caught in the ditches on either side.

Daryl's eyes scan the area. The fences have been broken, letting in more and more of the undead. Daryl doesn't know what they're feasting on, but he can see bones in the field that look vaguely like cows. There are a few cars littering the side of the road, either crashed into ditches or stuck with the people still inside. Now they're clawing at the glass, snarling and white-eyed. Poor, wretched things.

"Guess we go forward, then," he says.

"We can't drive into that," Rick says. "The cars won't make it. You're too exposed. I can't agree to that."

"Ain't askin' you to agree," Daryl says. "Just askin' you to follow. And cover me."

"You're insane," Rick gasps, reaching out and grabbing Daryl's arm tightly. His nails dig in and Daryl winces when Rick hauls him around so that they're facing each other. "Y'ain't doin' it," Rick growls. "Not while I'm here."

"Do you have another idea?" Daryl replies.

Rick glares at him, biting his lower lip. "Maybe," he says. "Let me think."

He steps back but doesn't let go of Daryl, as though afraid he'll bolt as soon as Rick releases him. Rick's eyes slide over the view and he frowns. Daryl can see the wheels turning in his head.

His eyes flash to Daryl. "How good's your aim?"

Daryl raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Good," he replies.

"You think you could hit that car?" Rick asks, gesturing to one of the wrecks on the side of the road. There's a dark pool of liquid around it. Oil, Daryl thinks. Or gasoline. He cocks his head to one side. It's far away, in the middle of where the horde starts. Then, he nods.

"Yeah," he replies. "I can hit it. We need somethin' to burn."

"We can cover that," Rick says. "You still have my lighter, right?"

Daryl nods, and they both turn and head back to the cars. Rick gestures for Shane and Lori to get out. "Stay here, guys," he tells Carl and Sophia, and Carol gets out of the car as well.

Rick leads them away so the children can't hear. "Alright, so there's a whole pack of 'em down there," Rick says. Their eyes widen. "I have a plan."

"Let's hear it," Carol says.

"One of the cars is leakin', I'm hopin it's somethin' flammable. Daryl's gonna shoot it and the fire should draw them to one side of the road, and we'll be able to drive down the other." Shane frowns, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's the only way. We can't turn around – the truck is too big."

Shane eyes them both critically. "You think you can make that shot?" he asks Daryl, hands on his hips. Daryl nods. "Alright, we'll see if it works. No harm in tryin', right?"

Rick nods and smiles. "If it works, when the road is clear enough, I'll pull forward so you can overtake me. Your truck'll deal with whatever's still lingerin'."

"You got it, brother," Shane says, and goes back to the car with Lori.

"Do you have any of Ed's alcohol?" Rick asks Carol.

She presses her lips together. "Maybe some of the beer," she says. "I didn't think we'd need any more of it. You know."

"Check," Rick says, and she nods and goes to the trunk of Shane's truck. Daryl fishes out a rag from one of his motorcycle saddle bags and wraps it around the tip of an arrow.

"This'll fuck up the weight," he mutters.

Rick smiles. "I have faith in you," he says quietly, finally letting go of Daryl so he can load the bow. Carol comes back with a single can of beer and opens it, and Rick takes it with another nod of thanks and pours it over the end of the arrow. Daryl wrinkles his nose at the smell – cheap shit, the kind his brother used to drink.

"Here goes nothin'," he says, and takes Rick's lighter. Rick steps back and gets into his car with Carol, turning it on and pulling forward so he's out of Shane's way. Daryl walks his bike to behind Rick's car and opens the kickstand so that he can follow.

Then, he steps forward in front of Rick's car and takes aim at the pack of undead. The glow of them is brilliant and beautiful, almost so bright that he can barely see the slick stain of gasoline on the ground. He takes a deep breath and, with an absent prayer up to God, he lights up the rag, lifts the bow and takes aim.

He steadies his arm and breathes deep. The flicker of the fire on the rag is distracting and he knows he doesn't have a lot of time if the flame is still going to be strong enough to light the oil. He presses his lips together and pulls the trigger.

The arrow goes, flinging itself from the bow and Daryl feels Gabriel's influence on it. It flies straight, a pretty arc over the horde of undead and straight into the slick puddle on the side of the road. The fire catches at once, flaring up and enveloping the host car, and he lowers his bow with a satisfied smile.

"Thanks," he says, and feels the wind touch his face like a gentle hand.

The dead growl and snarl, awakened by the fire, and flock to it. Daryl can't imagine why – maybe they recognize the fires of Hell from their time below. Maybe they crave the heat after being trapped for so long in the lake of ice. He doesn't have time to think about it too much.

He steps to one side and Rick drives forward, coming to a stop beside the part of the ditch Daryl is standing in. "Good shot," Carol says with a smile as Shane drives in front of them.

Rick and he share a look. Rick looks incredibly proud, and he smiles at Daryl, before his attention is drawn by Shane. "Good luck," he says, and Shane nods. Lori has her eyes covered. "Carl, Sophia, close your eyes, okay? Don't open 'em until I say you can."

"Okay, Dad," Carl says, and Daryl sees him curl up next to Sophia and put a hand over her eyes as he does the same.

Then, they're on the move. Daryl gets on his bike and follows behind Shane's truck, with the hope that between Rick's car and Shane's truck, there will be enough of a barrier that even exposed as he is, he won't be in too much danger. The side of the road is clear and Shane rams into the lingering undead with a vengeance. The sound of bodies hitting the truck is sickening and gross, and Daryl presses his lips together and drives through without looking. Like he's walking through Hell, he keeps his eyes forward and his head low.

But they make it. The heat of the fire teases at Daryl's exposed skin, he thinks he can hear screaming. Maybe there were some people still alive in that car. He can't afford to stop and save them. There's no way to do it anyway.

They drive until they're almost ten miles down the road, out of sight of the undead, and Shane stops the truck. The hood is steaming and dented, slick with blood and black slime. He's smiling in relief when he gets out of the car.

"Awesome shot," he tells Daryl, clapping a hand on his arm.

"Thanks," Daryl replies, and turns as Rick approaches him. He smiles. "That was a good plan."

"Yeah, sometimes I have them."

Daryl snorts. "Onward, then?" he asks.

"We should stop soon," Shane says. "I don't think it's safe to travel at night anymore."

"No," Carol says in agreement. "They're better at finding us than we are at avoiding them."

"Agreed," Rick says quietly. "We still got some daylight left, though. If we hit the highway there'll be plenty of places to stop."

Daryl huffs, looking over his shoulder to the hill they just drove past. There are more carcasses in the fields that he doesn't want to look at too closely. The herd must have come from this way. The sun is past its highest point, setting in the west, and he lifts his hand to shield his eyes as he squints in that direction.

"I think there's a barn over there," he says, nodding towards the tree line. There is, indeed, a house there, and a barn that's clearly seen better days. Daryl can see the slick trail of gold leading out of it, like people had been putting walkers inside of it. He frowns.

"Do you think it's safe?"

"Only one way to find out," Daryl says, mounting his bike again. "I can scout ahead, see what's what."

"I'm coming with you," Rick says.

Daryl shakes his head. "We can't take the car," he says. "There's not enough room in Shane's truck, and the kids'll be exposed." Rick frowns, already gearing up to argue, and Daryl reaches out and rests a hand on his chest. "I'll be okay," he says. "This ain't me goin' into a fight without backup, right?"

Rick growls, pressing his lips together. He looks out towards the barn and the house, clearly annoyed by the idea that Daryl wants to leave without him again. Daryl can't help feeling the same way – the idea of leaving Rick behind, unguarded, makes his neck prickle.

"Gimme half an hour," Daryl says, more loudly so everyone else can hear him.

Rick steps back as Daryl turns on the motorcycle, before he lunges forward and grabs Daryl's arm tight enough to hurt. "Not a second more," he says, his eyes gleaming brightly in the sunlight, voice low with something like threat.

Daryl swallows and nods. "Not a second more," he says, and Rick lets him go, and Daryl kicks up the kickstand and takes off down the road, towards the barn and the house.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canon violence.

The house is a standard plantation-style affair, painted white and pristine-looking. It reminds him of God's house, but it's far larger, more in tune with the generic Southern American look that people are so fond of down here. There's a porch around the front and sides, and a rocking bench on the porch. There's a muddy path slicked with golden light leading to the barn from the forests surrounding the place. There's a fence, unbroken and untouched, that holds a dark brown horse inside. Daryl drives his motorcycle up and doesn't see any cars around the building, so he pulls it to a stop under a large tree and leans the bike against it. He keeps his crossbow slung across his back, his knife at his side just in case he runs into any trouble.

He can't see the glow of anyone inside, but as he approaches the door, he sees a mark on the perfectly white painted front. He presses his lips together and comes closer, breathing out when he sees a smear of brown and orange that makes the stencil look like a white wing at sunset.

"Gabriel," he whispers. So Gabriel has left her mark here. That means whoever is inside should be allies. He looks around. The barn door is closed, sealed with a heavy slat of wood across the front and chains and a heavy padlock wrapped around it. He frowns. So the walkers didn't come from the barn, but there's no denying the stench of decay and the color of gold smeared along the front and ground in front of it. There are walkers inside. He makes a mental note to warn Rick and the others not to go near the barn.

He bites his lower lip, looking around again. There are no signs of life, inside the house or otherwise, and no cars. The horse gives a shrill whinny and trots across the fence closest to the house. It looks well-fed and well cared for, coat muddy but glossy where there isn't dirt, mane well-groomed, hooves clean.

He presses his lips together and sighs, unable to help feeling disappointed that there isn't anyone around. But with Gabriel's mark on the door, he's confident that this will be a safe place for them, at least for a night. He goes up to the door and knocks.

He hears shuffling around inside, much to his surprise, and after a moment a man opens the door. He blinks at Daryl and Daryl gasps, because the man's soul is…it's not flat, not black like his and Rick's are, but it's clean. Like a child's.

The man gives him a onceover, then raises an eyebrow. "Can I help you?" he asks after a moment.

Daryl licks his lips. "I, ah." He clears his throat, because it becomes immediately apparent to him that while he'd hoped to find people, he doesn't have anything prepared for what he needs to say. "Sorry. I was on the road and saw the house. Figured I'd see if there were any survivors still around."

The other eyebrow joins its brother. "Well, you found one," he says, before he frowns and opens the door a little more widely. Behind him, Daryl sees a flash of a young face, wide eyes, and a thick mane of blonde hair. It's a girl, a young one, and she disappears out of sight before Daryl can get a closer look at her.

He meets the other man's eyes. "Think I found more'n one," he says gently.

He's never seen a soul so clean in an adult. Every adult has sin, or at least, most of everyone he's ever met. Rick and he are the only exceptions so far, but this soul isn't a mirror like theirs are. Daryl feels like he's looking at what a prophet might have looked like. After all, most of Jesus' disciples and the holy men of the New Testament were little more than teenagers.

"I'm afraid we're not in a good place to receive guests," the man says, shutting the door a little more.

"Wait!" Daryl reaches out and stops the door closing all the way. "Look, man – it ain't just me. I got kids in my group. We just need a safe place to spend the night, that's all."

"I'm sorry, I -."

"Daddy, come on!"

A smaller hand wraps around the door, shoving it open before the man can close it all the way. Her eyes are brilliantly blue, shining with innocence, her soul as empty and new as her father's. She blinks at Daryl, as though not quite expecting to see the dirty man standing on her porch. Her eyes flash to his bitten neck, his muddy arms, the sweat stains on his clothes.

She presses her lips together and turns to her father. "We have to help those in need," she says. "Survivors."

"Get back inside," the man says, his high voice firm with the kind of authority only fathers can have. She glares at him, but it's weak, and she turns back to Daryl and offers her hand.

"I'm Beth," she says, and Daryl smiles and takes it in a light grip, bringing her knuckles to his lips. She blushes, smiling when he lets her hand go. "How many of you are there?"

Daryl's eyes flash to the man. "There's me, two women, two other men, and two kids," he says. "We've come from King County."

"That's a long way," the man says.

"And we've got farther to go," Daryl replies. "We just need a place to stop a rest. That's all. We won't bother y'all none."

The man gives him another onceover, before he sighs heavily through his nose. "There's a lean-to in the paddock," he says, nodding to a small building in the corner of the horse's field. It looks a lot like the shack from which Cain crawled, and Daryl does his best not to shiver in fear. "You can rest there for the night. If I catch you around my daughters, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

"Thank you, Sir," Daryl says, heavy with gratitude.

The man hesitates. "Herschel," he says, quietly. "My name is Herschel."

"Mine's Daryl," Daryl replies, smiling. "Thank you. I'll go let my people know."

He turns and heads back to his bike, stopping when he hears footsteps rapidly following. He turns in time to see Beth stutter to a halt, a few steps behind him, her eyes wide. She looks out of breath.

"Why are you going North?" she asks.

Daryl presses his lips together and shakes his head. "Go back to your father," he says, and climbs on his bike, kicking it to life and returning to the road.

He approaches the car and truck and Rick is in front of his, pacing back and forth like a caged jungle cat. He stops when Daryl approaches and sits on his bike, and walks over. "Well?" he asks.

"There's a man there, and I met one of his daughters but he said he has more than one. We can sleep in the lean-to, in the field. Long as we don't bother 'im, he don't got a problem."

Rick snorts. "That's Christian charity for you," he says, but turns and gives a nod to Shane, who nods back and climbs into the truck. Daryl leads the way back and guides them to park next to the tree. Beth is still standing there and Daryl huffs, rolling his eyes as he dismounts.

"Hello!" Beth greets cheerily, waving at them as they get out of their vehicles. She walks over to Daryl and hesitates, as Rick stands close to him, as though trying to block him from Beth's eyes. Her eyes move, sensing the change in leadership, and she holds out her hand to Rick. "I'm Beth. You're welcome here."

"Thank you," Rick says, outwardly calm as he shakes her hand, but Daryl can see his soul flickering with something possessive and jealous. Daryl has no idea why. Beth is pretty, but she's young and far too innocent for someone like him. And Daryl had thought he'd made it perfectly clear where his allegiances lie.

Beth blinks at him, pressing her lips together. "I'll see if Daddy can find some spare food for you guys, and blankets. It gets cold at night."

"We appreciate it," Carol says, smiling brightly as she flanks Daryl's other side. Sophia is next to her, clinging tightly to her hand. Lori, Carl, and Shane make up to the last of the party and Daryl wants to warn them back, it feels like they're crowding Beth, but she knew how many people were with him.

"Up there," Daryl says, nodding towards the field.

"Oh, a horse!" Lori says. "Whose is she?"

"Bailey's mine," Beth says. "Had her since I was a kid."

 _You're still a kid_ , Daryl wants to say, but holds his tongue.

Lori, Carol, Shane, and the kids follow Beth up to the field, a few bags between them full of blankets and some food for the rest of the day and the night. Daryl catches Rick's wrist and nods towards the barn.

"We can't go over there," he says. Rick frowns, and takes his glasses, putting them on and looking out towards the barn. His eyes widen and he puts them away. "I don't know what's in there, but we can't go there."

"We should kill 'em," Rick whispers.

"I agree," Daryl says. "But they ain't our problem." Rick shakes his head in disagreement but doesn't argue. "Gabriel's mark is on the door."

"So…these are friends?" Rick asks.

Daryl nods. "Potentially," he says. "It's a safe space, at least. The walkers didn't even look at this place. Maybe there's some kind of barrier here."

"A magic barrier for the Devil and his folk," Rick says, a wry smile on his face. Daryl rolls his eyes and then he and Rick start the trek up to the field. The grass is soft and wet with dew and the lean-to, when they approach it, is large enough to sleep all of them in relative comfort. There's a single stall filled with hay that Carl and Sophia are in for an extra layer of protection, and one wall has bridles and a saddle hanging off of it. It's warm inside, damp and dry, and Daryl breathes a sigh of relief when the warm air touches his skin.

"This is cozy," Carol says, settling down with her back to the wall with a sigh. Daryl can't help but agree. Like this they'll all need to sleep close together, although he thinks that once the sun sets that'll be more of a blessing than anything else. Lori and Shane have started to lay down pallets and blankets on the floor, creating a mat-like surface for most of them to protect themselves from the cold.

Daryl catches Beth's eye. "Hey," he says, leading her out of the lean-to. "If you guys have any wire and spare pieces of wood, I can set up some traps and catch y'all some dinner as a thank you."

Beth smiles. "I'll see what we have," she says, resting her hand on Daryl's arm for a brief moment. Daryl resists the urge to pull away from her. Her soul is bright around the blackness, she's old enough to start thinking about things that are lustful and dangerous. Even though he is still, technically, the Devil, it feels wrong to be the one to lead her down that path.

She leaves soon after and Daryl sighs, going around the outside of the lean-to and lighting a cigarette. He sits in the sun, inhaling the first drag deeply, and turns his head when Rick approaches, momentarily throwing him into darkness before he sits as well, side by side with Daryl.

"Want any?" he asks, holding out the cigarette, and Rick shakes his head.

"I don't like it here," Rick says after a moment. Daryl looks over at him. "I feel…weird, here. Like I'm being watched."

"Think we're all being watched," Daryl replies, nodding towards the house.

"Ain't what I meant."

"I know," Daryl replies. He stretches his legs out in front of him and sighs. "We can't keep stoppin' every time someone wants to. S'gonna take us too long to get North."

"What's even North?" Rick demands.

Daryl sighs again. "I don't fuckin' know," he says, taking another inhale from the cigarette. "For all I know nothin'. We might not even make it there. Such is the way."

"I don't like this," Rick says. "I don't like any of this."

"I know," Daryl replies. "I wish I had an answer. I just don't."

Rick turns and leans his head on Daryl's shoulder, sighing heavily, and rubs a hand over his eyes. "I feel like I haven't slept in years," he says.

"Rest," Daryl replies, lifting his free hand to pet through Rick's hair lightly. "We ain't goin' anywhere for a while."

Rick heaves a breath and goes lax against Daryl's side, warm and sleepy. Daryl smiles and takes another drag, watching the plume of smoke waft up and disappear in the open air.

 

 

Daryl dreams, that night, of lakes of ice and golden wings so bright he can't look directly at them. He feels like he's slipping, clawing frantically at the surface of the lake, and even though there's nothing underneath the surface dragging him under, no souls clawing at his legs and no weight pulling him down, he can't stop sinking.

Samael is standing above him, smiling gently. He kneels down and touches Daryl's face in a light brush, fingertips across his brow. Daryl thinks this must have been how Jesus felt when he was cleaned by the women during his long march to the Cross.

He digs his nails into the ice and grits his teeth when Samael stands, golden wings flaring out and illuminating the sapphires and diamonds within his cave.

"I've been down here for so long," he says, and turns away to look at where the shack once stood. He takes a step towards it and Daryl kicks frantically, gritting his teeth, and finally finds enough purchase to haul his upper body out of the freezing water. He lays on the ice, breathing hard, shivering so badly he wonders how he doesn't crack the ice apart more from the tremors. "Away from my Father, and my brothers. Do you know what it's like to be alone for that long?"

Daryl groans, and manages to get a knee up onto the ice. He pulls himself out of the water, trembling, and gets his knees underneath him. He plants his hands on the ice and kneels up so he can see Samael.

"But I suppose I wasn't really alone," Samael says, smiling with something like adoration on his beautiful face. He looks over his shoulder at Daryl and sighs. "Do you want to hear the story of Cain? The real one?"

"Do I have a choice?" Daryl asks, stuttering the words out. His lungs feel like they're freezing, water in them sticking to the insides and clogging his throat.

Samael laughs, clapping his hands together. "Oh, I like you!" he says. Then he kneels down, uncaring for the way his bare skin sticks to the ice, turning red and blistering from the cold. Samael's eyes drop to Daryl's bandaged hand, and he takes it, holding it between both of his. He kisses Daryl's knuckles and Daryl gasps, the ant-like biting sensation trickling up his arm like feeling coming back to a dead limb. "You touched my sword. But you're still alive."

"Yeah," Daryl replies. "Someone else wasn't so lucky."

"You call it luck," Samael says. "Others would call it destiny. Are you losing faith, Lucifer?"

"It's easy to have faith in what you see," Daryl says.

Samael smiles. "That it is," he says with a nod, and releases Daryl's hand. It hurts, and itches, but in the way wounds do when they heal. Daryl's bandages are wet and he wonders if they'll still be when he wakes up.

Samael sighs, his wings curling forward and Daryl flinches, remembering how it had felt being wrapped up in them before. But Samael's wings don't touch him, like they no longer deign to be near Daryl now that he's mortal, and human. Dirty. Disgraceful.

"God made men flawed," he says. "He didn't mean to, I'm sure. He created curiosity, and interest. He gave man brains too big for their own good, survival instincts too weak to overpower them." He presses his lips together and looks down. "I wept with my Father when Cain killed Abel."

"I don't give a shit," Daryl hisses. "I wanna wake up."

Samael smiles. "God came to me when Cain killed his brother," he says, standing again. His skin glistens with melted water, and even though the heat from the soles of his feet steam the surface of the lake, it doesn't crack underneath him. "He asked me, practically begged me, to make it right again. And how could I possibly do that? What could _I_ do that my great Father in Heaven could not?"

Samael shakes his head and Daryl groans, running shaking hands through his sodden hair. His skin feels like it's trying to leap from his bones, tearing the muscles in tiny pin-pricks of pain and Daryl has never had wings but he thinks this must be like what it feels to have a feather plucked out, one by one, until he's barren.

He manages to get a foot under him, pushes himself up to one knee, then the other foot drags along and he manages to get his feet on the ice, hands on his knees, his thighs trembling.

"I did what I had to do," Samael says, either not noticing Daryl's struggle, or not caring. "I took away Cain's ability to take on sin, and to take on redemption. I did that so that Cain couldn't redeem himself in my Father's eyes. But…" He turns around and regards Daryl, his golden eyes flat, the metal hardening in the cold. "As soon as Cain saw me – that was the mistake I made."

Daryl pushes himself upright, his lungs seizing up and making him cough. "You love him," Daryl says.

"Tell me, Lucifer, when your mortal charge looks at you, when he touches you and says your name like you may as well be our Father, how does it feel?" Samael crosses over the lake and takes Daryl's face in his hands. "You might be the only other being in existence who has seen the face of God, and felt the love of a man like that."

Daryl growls, gritting his teeth and digging his nails around Samael's wrists. "I'm nothin' like you," he says.

Samael smiles. "I think we both know that's not true," he replies. "But I guess it doesn't matter. Everyone figures out the truth by the end." He leans in and presses a kiss to Daryl's forehead. It feels like a burn. "I'll see you soon, Lucifer. Farewell."

 

 

Daryl jerks awake, instinctively putting his hand to his mouth to stop himself crying out. On one side of him, Carol stirs and rolls over, humming quietly. On his other side, Rick is awake, either roused by Daryl moving or already awake.

Daryl looks over at him and Rick's eyes are dark, his soul flickering with yellowy fear. "Did you see him too?" he asks. Daryl swallows hard and lays back down, facing Rick. There's a small lantern hung by the entrance to the lean-to, and a second inside the stalls, and between those he can see enough of Rick's face to see that Rick isn't well-rested in the slightest. There's sweat on his brow despite the cool air. Daryl feels slick too, but he's shivering, and when he presses his hands against Rick's chest, he knows his fingers are ice cold.

"Samael?" Daryl asks.

Rick frowns, and shakes his head. "Negan," he says.

Daryl frowns. "No," he said. "My dream wasn't about Negan."

"What was yours?"

"I was with Samael," Daryl murmurs, then shakes his head and presses his lips together. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Rick's eyes search his face, before he nods and pets a hand through Daryl's wet hair. "Christ, you're freezing," he says, tugging Daryl closer and Daryl goes with a quiet huff, closing his eyes and pressing his face against Rick's neck. He curls his fingers in Rick's clothing and shivers.

"What did you dream about?" Daryl asks when it feels like his body is starting to warm up, his tremors quieting in Rick's arms.

Rick growls, and when he speaks, his lips brush Daryl's forehead gently, warmly; "I dreamed that…he and I were talking. Just talking. And I wasn't afraid, but I felt like I should have been afraid. It was like I had the glasses on, because he was shining, but he was black in the middle like you are. And he was covered in gold, and he was laughing."

Daryl presses his lips together. "But you weren't afraid?" he asks.

"No," Rick replies. "But there was fire everywhere. It surrounded us. I could hear voices, screaming and shouting and all else. I felt the heat like I was there. But I just felt calm. Like…" He shakes his head and sighs. "It's gonna sound crazy."

"We got a lot of that goin' around."

"I just felt like…like I was meant to be there. Like everything in my life had come to that point and it was like nothing else was going to matter, because one way or another whatever was supposed to happen was going to happen. Does that make sense?"

"Sounds a lot like destiny," Daryl says dryly.

Rick laughs. "I guess," he says. "Like I said, it was a weird dream."

"Whatever it was, it kept you up," Daryl murmurs, and Rick nods in answer. "What did you and Negan talk about?"

"Nothing important."

Daryl huffs. "Just say you don't wanna say," he mutters, pulling back so he can see Rick's eyes. "Don't lie to me."

Rick regards him for a long moment. In the stillness and the silence, it's almost peaceful here. The air is rich with the scent of grass and dirt, Daryl can smell rain coming on the horizon. The lean-to smells of horses and hay, sharp but pleasant, and it's one of those moments that feels like it will never end.

Rick's eyes drop to his mouth and he tightens his hand in Daryl's hair, pulling him in for a deep but quick kiss. "Not here," he says, voice almost too low to hear. "Not now."

Daryl closes his eyes and submits to another kiss Rick presses to his mouth. "We need to pack up and keep movin'," he says after a moment, when Rick withdraws.

"Aren't we safe here?" he asks.

"Yeah, but this ain't where we're supposed to be," Daryl replies. "And if we don't go to him, he'll come to us."

Rick opens his mouth to argue, but frowns, shifting his weight onto his elbow and rolling over as they both became aware of the sound of footsteps through the grass. They're deliberate and steady, not the shuffling of a walker, and Daryl and Rick both sit up to see a young woman coming up the small hill towards them. Beth is at her side, her eyes wide and she's speaking frantically to the other woman but they're still too far away to make out any distinct words.

Daryl gasps, and he feels Rick's hand slide to his shoulder and tighten. "She looks like Gabriel," Rick says.

Which is impossible. Gabriel has a job to do, and would not be here on this farm while there was so much left to be done. _But_ , Daryl wouldn't put it past her to have taken the form of someone they would recognize. She hadn't appeared to them, the last time, in her normal cowgirl getup, but instead had chosen to obtain a striking resemblance to the woman walking towards them now.

"She must be someone we need," Daryl replies after a moment. "Someone who needs to join us."

She crests the hill with Beth and Daryl can see her a little better now. Her soul has shades of green etched into it, she's old enough to take on sin and isn't as righteous and clean as her father is. Envy, longing, pride – those are the things Daryl sees in her. But they're light, controlled tightly. She's a model disciple if Daryl's ever seen one.

"Morning!" Rick says, pushing himself to his feet and Daryl follows suit, rubbing his hair away from his face and squinting against the sunrise as it arcs up over them.

Beth rushes forward so she stands between them. "Uh, Daryl. This is my sister, Maggie."

"Nice to meet you," Daryl says, nodding to Maggie, who returns it with a curt nod of her own. Her jaw is clenched, her glass-green eyes bright. She's pretty, statuesque and strong and Daryl feels calm in her presence. "I'm Daryl, this is Rick. We got a few others in the lean-to there. Which, again, I should thank yer dad for letting us spend the night."

"Pleased to meet you," Maggie says, nodding again, although Daryl senses it's out of instinctive politeness that she says it, rather than any genuine pleasure. "Do you think you'll be stayin' long?"

"No," Rick says, taking a step forward as though trying to block Daryl from the women's sight again. "Probably not. We have places to be."

"Oh?" Maggie asks, one eyebrow arching up.

"We're headed North," Daryl says, looking between Maggie and Beth. "You're welcome to join us."

Maggie blinks at him, and her body moves like she's been physically pushed. "Why… What makes you think we'd wanna go up there?" she demands, but Daryl can see the blaze of interest in her soul. Just as Samael said: humans are too curious for their own damn good.

"Numbers, for one," Daryl says.

"And we have people up there," Rick adds. "But like Daryl said – people need to start lookin' out for each other. We need to make sure as many people survive this as we can."

Maggie cocks her head to one side, her eyes narrowed for a moment. Then, she nods past them and to the lean-to. "How many in your group?" she asks.

"Five adults, two kids," Rick replies.

"That's a lot of weight to be movin' around."

"We can handle it," Rick says, lifting his chin as though in challenge.

Maggie presses her lips together. "Beth, come back to the house," she says, and grabs Beth's arm before she can protest, hauling her around and down the hill. Daryl watches her go and turns his head when he hears Rick let out a low curse.

"Some friend," he says.

"Just because Gabriel looked like her doesn't mean they're anything alike," Daryl replies with a shrug. "Like I said, angels can't fuck with free will. Either she'll come with us, or she won't." He raises his eyes to watch the women retreat, towards the house. "I think they'll come with us," he says.

"Yeah?" Rick murmurs.

Daryl nods, lifting his hand to shield his eyes. He squints towards the barn and shivers. The thing looks evil, giant window in the hayloft open and gaping like a perpetually yawning mouth. He wonders if they used to have cows in there, and had released them and that's what the dead had been feasting on when they'd passed.

The rest of the group start to stir and Carl and Sophia emerge from the stalls. "I gotta pee," Carl complains.

Shane grins at him. "Come on, we'll both go," he says, and puts a hand on Carl's arm and heads out towards the forest.

Lori presses her lips together, huffing. "I'm sure they would have let us use the bathroom," she says, looking to Carol for some agreement.

Carol rolls her eyes. "Men like to mark their territory," she says with a laugh, which Lori returns. Then, she sees Daryl and Rick and her expression becomes cooler, more distant again. "If you'll help me make a fire, I can cook some more rice or something for breakfast."

"Sure," Rick says. "C'mon." He jerks his head towards the car and Lori smiles thinly, following him towards the car and leaving Carol, Daryl, and Sophia alone.

Daryl kneels down and starts to roll up the bedding and blankets they used. One way or another, they won't be staying here another night, and he needs to make sure they're ready to go. After a moment, Carol kneels down to help him.

"We can't keep stoppin' every night," Daryl says.

Carol presses her lips together and lets out a sound like she wants to protest but holds herself back. "Georgia's not so bad, you know."

Daryl lifts his head. "You moved here?" he asks.

Carol nods. "I'm originally from Alabama," she says, and Daryl nods, fighting back an eyeroll because that makes them practically neighbors. "I met Ed and we moved here for his job. It was hard, you know – I didn't get to see a lot of my family and friends after that."

Daryl grunts.

"What about you?" Carol asks.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "Born and raised here," he says. "I made commutes up to the Carolinas and stuff, mostly just to get away from home for a while, but I always came back."

"Do you think North will be much different?"

"Colder, maybe," Daryl says. "But it don't really matter. Got bigger things to worry 'bout than a little snow."

"I suppose." Carol straightens up, her hands on either side of a folded blanket. She stares down at it for a moment – it's one that Lori and Shane recovered from the house, and has pretty white flowers on it, still visible even around the dirt. She shivers, fingers going tight in the blanket, and then wipes a hand over her eyes. "Yes, I suppose it doesn't really matter."

 

 

Lori and Rick return with a pot and some food and Rick sets about setting up the fire for cooking. Daryl raises an eyebrow and watches him do it, fighting the urge to take over from him since Rick is having trouble. He thinks of how he used to be able to conjure fire from his bare hands and sighs.

Finally, Rick gets the fire lit, and they use a metal wastepaper basket from a shelf in the lean-to to cover the Firestarters and logs from the truck, and set the pot on top with some water inside. Daryl watches the flames curl between the netted sides of the basket. The air is brisk but the sun is gleaming, brighter than Daryl thinks it should be, like it's dancing with joy over the new world as it's cleansed and culled.

When the water starts to boil, Lori adds in rice and uses one of the knives they grabbed from their kitchen to slice up some sausage and puts it in the pot as well. "I guess we'll have to get used to eating bland," she says with an apologetic shrug. Daryl supposes it's an interesting breed of person that would be embarrassed by their hosting skills in the middle of the Apocalypse.

"Hey, it's warm and it'll fill us. That's good enough," Rick says. Lori smiles at him, and turns her attention back to the food. With that much rice it'll take a while to get cooked and then Rick frowns after a moment, looking out towards the trees. "Shane and Carl haven't come back yet, have they?"

Lori blinks at him, then looks over her shoulder. "…No," she says, sounding uneasy.

Rick stands and Daryl follows suit. "We'd have heard if they'd gotten into trouble," he says. "They can't have gone far just to take a leak."

"Yeah," Rick replies, uneasily. He looks at Lori. "Stay here. Daryl n'I are gonna go lookin' for 'em."

"Okay," she replies softly, her brow creased with worry. Daryl grabs his crossbow and Rick's pistol from their pile of weapons by the front of the lean-to and they hold them ready. Daryl finds Carl and Shane's tracks in the grass easily, and follows it until the forest starts up.

"Shouldn't'a let him outta my fuckin' sight," Rick growls.

Daryl presses his lips together and sighs. "Nothin's gonna happen to your boy," he says. "Shane'll make sure'a that."

"Still," Rick mutters, his eyes moving around. After a moment he puts his sunglasses on and Daryl turns his eyes to the ground. Whatever rain the farm had gotten that had wetted the grass has made the ground soft, and he can see the prints of Shane's weight in the trail as it gets farther in.

They walk for a few minutes, well past the point where Daryl would have considered polite to pee, and he frowns and comes to a stop, looking up.

"What is it?" Rick whispers to him.

"There's someone else here," Daryl replies.

"One of the girls?" Rick asks.

Daryl shakes his head and lifts a finger to his lips, telling Rick to be quiet. He can't see any shadows of gold in the trees, and it's the middle of the morning so he's not worried about anyone really sneaking up on them.

He goes low to the ground and follows the line of breaks in the leaves, the snap of a little branch jutting across the trail, the imprint of the front of Shane's shoe in the mud. Then, the trees clear a few feet beyond, and Daryl deflates with a breathless, relieved sigh when he sees Shane's back.

He clears his throat and Shane turns, smiling, and puts a finger to his lips. Daryl prowls forward, able to feel Rick behind him and hear the soft footsteps of the other man, and he realizes what Shane was looking at.

There's a deer, just a few feet away from them. She's gorgeous, her dark coat still has a few of the baby spots on it, on her rump, and she's standing tall and her ears are twitching, but she's not running away from them.

Carl is closer to her, wide-eyed and smiling. He looks at Shane, Daryl, and Rick, and waves to them. Rick waves back, his fingers curling.

Carl looks back at the deer and takes another step forward. Her nose twitches and she turns to regard him with calm, dark eyes.

"I don't think he's ever seen one before," Rick whispers to Daryl, his voice low and soft in Daryl's ear. Daryl presses his lips together. Here, in the quiet and stillness of the trees, it's damn near peaceful, and Daryl thinks this might have been how the Garden of Eden felt when Adam and Eve first saw it.

Carl takes another step forward and Daryl straightens when his attention is caught by a flash of gold between a denser crop of trees. And then three things happen all at the same time.

A walker stumbles out of the trees, snarling, and the deer bolts away from all of them. It lunges at Carl with a growl and Carl screams, fighting against it but he's too small and too slow and it falls against him. Then, Rick and Shane leap up and Shane pulls his mortal gun out, aiming for the walker.

There's a gunshot, and Daryl stands slowly, his eyes wide as the walker goes quiet and still with a final hiss. The gold in him leaches out and disappears and then Shane and Rick are running forward and there's so much blood on Carl's stomach and lower body.

"Fuck," Rick whispers, holstering his weapon and falling to his knees. "Fuck, no, no, no -."

He rolls Carl onto his back and tears his shirt in halves, baring his skinny, pale chest. Shane is on his other side, putting the back of his hand to Carl's mouth. "Is he breathing?" Rick asks frantically.

"Yeah," Shane says, and Rick's shoulders cave in with a sob.

"Okay," Rick whispers. "Okay…" His fingers slide across the blood on Carl's stomach, and Daryl steps forward and is glad to see that it doesn't look like the walker managed to bite him. Rick shoves the dead thing away with a snarl, tears in his eyes, and freezes when it becomes apparent – the source of the blood.

There's a bullet hole in Carl's stomach. It's leaking blood steadily.

"We have to get him back," Shane says after a moment. "We can – maybe Carol or Lori have sewing shit, or in the house."

Rick is staring at the wound in his son's stomach and Shane growls, scooping Carl up into his arms. "Rick, come on!" he yells, kicking at Rick's shoulder and that manages to snap him out of it, because Rick nods and scrambles to his feet.

"Go with Shane," Daryl murmurs when Rick reaches out to grab his arm. His fingers leave a smear of blood on Daryl's skin.

"What?" Rick demands.

"Someone shot him," Daryl says. He puts the muzzle of his bow to the ground and loads an arrow swiftly. "I'm gonna find out who."

The fire around Rick's soul is too chaotic to read, but Daryl can see the bloodthirsty pride in his eyes. Rick nods, pressing his lips together, and then turns and sprints after Shane through the forest. Daryl puts his eyes on the trees and tries to find any flash of yellow, or red, or anything else that might lead him to the person who fired their weapon.

He inspects the walker again. The back of its head is blown to bits, meaning the person aimed from behind, and low. Daryl bites his lower lip and heads that way. It doesn’t take him long to find where the person was – a man, heavy-set, probably about six feet tall. And he's armed.

But he's also a coward. Daryl sees the mud churned, grass trampled where the man had turned and fled after shooting at the walker. Daryl isn't sure if he thought he could help, if he'd been aiming for something else – the deer, maybe – but frankly, he doesn't care.

The man might be guilty of murder, and murderers only go one way.

 

 

When Daryl returns to the farm, it's almost nightfall. There's a fire outside of the house, flickering brightly in a pit, and Carol, Sophia, Shane, and Rick are gathered around it. Beth and Maggie are there too. He lets out a whistle to let them know he's coming, and Rick turns, frantically searching the darkness like a dog waiting for his master to walk through the door.

As soon as Daryl is visible, Rick leaps to his feet. There's blood on his hands – Carl's blood – and on his face like he kept rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. Daryl is reminded of when he killed Negan.

Rick runs to him and fists his hands in Daryl's shirt, yanking him closer and off-kilter so that Daryl falls against him. "How is he?" Daryl asks, putting a hand in Rick's hair. Rick has his face pressed against Daryl's neck and his shoulders are shaking.

"He's alive," Rick finally says, pulling back and wiping a hand across his mouth. His eyes shine brightly, wet and wide, and he looks at Daryl, then down at his bow. "Did you find the guy?" he asks.

Daryl nods.

Rick doesn't ask anything else, and Daryl doesn't volunteer any information. He thinks he can see the exact moment it clicks in Rick's head, and his jaw flexes at the corner. He puts a hand on his hip and looks back out to the forest, then he sighs.

"Is Lori in there with him?" Daryl asks, circling Rick and approaching the fire. Shane looks up at him and Rick follows. Shane makes room and Daryl sits between him and Rick. Shane still has blood on his hands, dry now but no less red.

Shane looks down at his hands, curling them, and heaves a large breath. "Yeah," he says, rubbing his hand across his mouth. "I couldn't convince her otherwise. The guy in there, he's a doctor. Got Carl all sewed up but…"

"There was so much blood," Rick whispers. "I've never seen that much blood come out of one person."

"What happened out there?" Maggie asks. She is sitting closer to her sister, curled up and shivering with the cold. It's so strange, to see Gabriel's face and know it's not Gabriel.

Shane lets out a broken-sounding noise, scratching his nails through his hair. "I should'a just taken him back," he mutters. "I should have just let him pee and come straight back."

"You couldn't have known," Beth says.

Shane shakes his head. For the first time, Daryl sees his soul turn a color other than red. Now, he's drenched in blue – wretched, horrible sadness, the same kind of color that stains men standing on the edges of bridges, the kind that hold their dead wives and children when their lifeless bodies are dragged out of a housefire. It's not a light color, doesn't mesh with the red to make purple. It's solid and raw and covers all of him. It makes Daryl ache.

"It won't happen again," Daryl says to him, leaning in so that no one else hears. Shane lifts his head, tears in his eyes, and Daryl hopes he understands what Daryl is trying to say. After a moment, Shane nods, his expression determined.

No, Daryl is sure no harm will ever come to Carl again. Not as long as they're here.

"I need to see him," Rick says. "He has my blood type. I can – I can give him some. Maybe. He'll need it."

"Daddy ain't gonna let you all into the house," Maggie replies.

"He's my _son_."

"And he's in the best hands you'll get this side of Atlanta," Maggie says, raising her chin in challenge. Rick growls, glaring at her.

Daryl looks up when a shaft of lightning arcs down from the sky, striking the tree line on the far side of the field. The thunder follows by a little after and Carol shifts uneasily, holding Sophia close to her side.

"I guess we're staying one more night," Shane says after a moment. He stands. "Carol, would you mind helpin' me out with the pallets?"

"Of course," Carol says, standing as well and taking Shane's hand with a smile as he helps her step over the log she had been sitting on. Sophia follows.

Maggie stands, giving Beth a meaningful look. Beth sighs and stands as well. "Goodnight, Daryl. Rick," she says with a nod and a weak attempt at a smile. "Daddy's a really good doctor, I promise. He'll make sure nothin' happens to your boy."

Daryl nods. "Thanks," he says, and then the girls leave.

Rick lets out a low growl, glaring at the fire since his previous target is no longer present. "They can't keep him from me forever," he says, like he needs to warn Daryl – like Daryl could believe for a second that Rick is the kind of man to passively sit and wait.

Daryl doesn't think that. He gently touches Rick's bloodstained jaw and directs his gaze towards the forest, where Daryl had followed the trail of the gunman. "Look," he says, whispering the word into Rick's ear, soft enough to make him shiver.

There's a glow just above the tree line. It's not the sunset, it's coming from the wrong direction. Rick shifts his weight and lets out an uneasy sound. "Fire?" he asks.

Daryl nods. "I followed his trail," he says, and slides a hand down Rick's arm, holding him close, and turns his head to kiss the bite mark still visible on Rick's neck. "He had a house a few miles away. Real cute little place. Lots of flowers growin' around it."

Rick presses his lips together, fingers curling, his eyes fixed on the glow of the flames like a deer in headlights.

"He had this greenhouse," Daryl continues, petting his other hand down Rick's forearm, closest to him. He smooths his fingers over the back of Rick's hand, tracing the flakes of blood, the bumps of his veins, the rise of his tendons. Rick spreads his fingers and Daryl slides his between, smiling when Rick holds onto him tightly. "And I think his whole fuckin' family was in the greenhouse. There were two women, a kid, and an older guy in there."

Rick shudders, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His eyes are so light they almost look orange in the light of the fire next to them.

"You wanna know what I did, Rick?" he asks. Rick's fingers flex between his and Rick nods, letting out a breathless gasp. It's so easy, to slip into this role, to seduce and weave such intricate stories to tempt a soul to sin – but he's not tempting Rick to sin, he's not telling him a story to lure him down a broken path. He's doing it because he wants to, because this is a true story and he feels Rick's pride like the heat from the fire.

Rick licks his lips when Daryl remains silent, and finally breaks his gaze away from the tree line. "What did you do?" he rasps, voice low like he's been clogged with ash, eyes heavy as he rests his forehead against Daryl's and breathes deeply.

Daryl smiles and kisses Rick, quick and soft. "I lit his house on fire," Daryl whispers. "And when he tried to run, I opened the greenhouse and let his family eat him alive."

Rick's breath leaves him, heavy and shaky. "And you called _me_ fucked up," he says.

"Well, ain't like bein' the Devil for twenty years doesn't give you some ideas," Daryl replies. Rick smiles, leaning in for another kiss that Daryl eagerly grants him. When he pulls back, he seems calmer, the fire around his soul is less frantic. "He'll be okay, Rick," Daryl adds. "Carl's a strong kid."

"Do you…do you think prayin' would help?" Rick asks.

"It never hurts," Daryl replies. Then, he pulls back and kicks dirt at the fire, snuffing it out and throwing them into almost total darkness. "Come on," he says, taking Rick's hand. "Come keep me warm tonight."

"You're just tryin' to distract me," Rick accuses gently, but stands. The air is humid and cool and Daryl shivers, pressing himself close to Rick's chest.

"Is it working?" Daryl whispers.

Rick huffs a laugh. "Maybe," he replies, running his bloody hands through Daryl's hair.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! I overtook myself and now I'm having to write as I go, lol. I'm not good at this part. But I have a long weekend ahead of me so I'm hoping to be writing for most of it.
> 
> Enjoy!

The storm is a dry one. There's no rain sweeping across the fields, but it's humid, promising. Daryl carefully pulls himself free of Rick's embrace, careful not to wake the man, and pushes himself to his feet.

He dusts himself off, and sets his eyes on the house.

His feet are silent and he moves swiftly down the hill towards the house. He didn't get a good look at it before, but he's sure there will be a place that he will be able to use. His arms are itching, like he spent the entire day rolling in grass.

As he walks, he undoes the safety pin holding his bandage on his hand and unwraps it. His fingers flex and he looks at his palm. It looks better, the skin around the burn is a light pink and the burn itself looks more like a scab than a burn now. He smiles and sends another word of thanks up to Raphael.

He shoves the bandages into his pocket and circles the house, eyes narrowed in the darkness to try and see anywhere he can climb up. One of the lights is still on and he assumes it's the one for Carl's room because he can't imagine anyone else is awake. The moon is high and thin, giving him very little light.

There's a stack of chopped logs behind the house. Daryl presses his lips together and climbs the stack, glad that there's a tarp over them that gives the pyramid some structural integrity. He braces his hands against the siding and balances carefully on the logs, then looks up. If he stretches up high enough he can just brush the edge of the gutters. They're steel and should be able to hold his weight for a small amount of time.

He looks down, grits his teeth, and makes sure his foundation is steady. Then he looks back up and jumps for it.

His fingers catch on the edge of the roof, his forearms digging into the gutters hard enough to hurt, and he grits his teeth and plants his feet against the siding, scrabbling for purchase. He hauls himself up with a growl, one foot braced on the gutter where it runs down the corner of the house, and he's reminded sharply of pulling himself up out of the lake of ice. It's cold and there's wind on this side of the house and he's starting to sweat, but he manages to get an elbow up, then up to his shoulder, then a knee and an ankle and finally he rolls into place on the roof of the first landing.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, glad that at least this style of house means he has a place to rest and doesn't have to try and dangle from the Goddamn roof. The stars shine down at him, twinkling like they're giggling at his state. Daryl thinks of the time Metatron took him around Heaven and they'd seen the stars as playful children, dancing in the darkness. Of course, Daryl knows that stars aren't alive, they don't take form and laugh and dance, but in Heaven, humans find it comforting to watch them.

He pushes himself upright and to his feet, walking carefully along the slanted roof, one hand on the siding of the second level, as he approaches the window of the room with the light still on. He crouches low and peers inside.

It is, indeed, the room they put Carl in. Lori is asleep on the bed next to him, curled tightly around her son. Carl is pale and shining with fever. He looks incredibly sick and Daryl presses his lips together and thinks he should have made the man suffer more.

There is a lantern in the corner of the room, one of the camping lights from Amicalola, sitting on the bedside table. Behind him, Daryl knows the glow of the housefire is lighting up the horizon.

The window is open, letting in fresh air, and Daryl kneels down and digs his fingers under the edge of the window, gently sliding it up.

He opens it enough to climb through and does so, as silently as he can. His boots make very little noise, and Carl doesn't stir as he approaches.

His hand aches. It's the hand that didn't touch Samael's sword, the one belonging to the arm that Raphael had blessed. Lori's arm is wrapped around Carl's shoulders and Daryl bites his lip, and carefully tugs the blankets down as best he can. She's laying on top of them so he can't pull them down too far.

Then he takes her wrist, gently pushing it away, and slides Carl's shirt halves away. They didn't change him, his clothes are a deep and dark red. He exposes the bandages on Carl's stomach and sighs when he sees they're red there, too. He's bleeding through them.

Daryl gets closer, kneeling on the bed, and Lori jerks awake with a start.

"What?" Her eyes widen and she opens her mouth to yell and Daryl shushes her frantically. He snaps a hand out and clamps it over her mouth to stop her screaming.

"Don't say anythin'," Daryl whispers. When he's sure she isn't going to scream, he pulls his hand away. She glares at him, eyes narrowed and cold.

"Get the fuck away from my son," she says. "What are you _doing_?"

"Savin' his life," Daryl replies.

Lori snorts. "What, are you a doctor now too?"

Daryl manages a strained smile. "Just be quiet and don't touch him," he says, and starts to gently peel back the bandages.

"What are you _doing_?" Lori demands, grabbing his hands and yanking him away. She's small, though, and weak in comparison, and he pushes her grip away with a low growl. "Stop, stop it! I'll scream. Shane'll gut you if you touch Carl."

Daryl shakes his head. "Shane knows the truth," he says. "You can see it, too, if you want. Or, you can scream, and run."

"Please," Lori whispers, tears coming to her eyes. She puts a hand to her throat and another to her stomach and fists it in her shirt. "Please, just leave him alone. Don't hurt him."

"I'm not gonna hurt him," Daryl replies. His eyes move back to Carl, where the bandages are half-peeled back. He looks at her again, measuring the distance between the two of them, and slowly peels them back the rest of the way. Carl's stomach has been wiped clean and there is a series of huge, ugly-looking stitches in his abdomen. They're wet with blood seeping through.

Lori lets out a pained sob and puts her hand from her stomach to her mouth, the tears falling now. Daryl presses his lips together and settles down on his knees.

"Shane said he didn't see the man," she says. Daryl's fingers curl, his hand feels like it's burning. "Who shot him."

Daryl nods. "He ran away as soon as he did it," he murmurs. "I followed him."

"Did you find him?" Lori asks.

"Yeah," Daryl says, raising his eyes to meet hers. "Yeah. I definitely fuckin' found him."

Lori's eyes flash and she presses her lips together. Brown eyes, especially ones as dark as hers, are harder to read, he's found. But her soul is easy. Something fierce and red flashes across it, a bitter and satisfied streak of wrath. Daryl remembers how Lori had reacted when Daryl had basically told her he, Rick, and Shane were going to kill Ed.

"I was wrong about you," he says to her. She blinks at him, straightening up, her jaw clenching as she swallows. Her body is tense, she's coiled up like a cobra, ready to strike at the creature attacking her young.

Then, Daryl looks back at Carl, and takes a deep breath. Above him, thunder is rolling like the boulder weighing down Sisyphus. The air feels heavy and oppressive, the entire sky resting on his shoulders. He lets his breath out slowly and looks towards the window.

"Close it," he tells Lori, and she goes and slides the window shut. "Turn off the lantern."

"What are you going to do?" she asks, voice low and frantic. "Please."

Daryl looks at his palm, fingers curling tightly until his nails dig in and his palms starts to ache sharply. The light goes off when Lori switches off the lantern and Daryl can see, in the darkness, the pulse of silver in his fist. It's Raphael's color, the healing hand.

He closes his eyes and leans over Carl, pressing his hand against the stiches in the boy's stomach, and calls upon Raphael's power. His hand hurts, and it feels like it did when he touched Samael's sword – something is sticking him to Carl's skin, burning him there, and he grits his teeth and stifles a yell against his other fist as Carl starts to tremble underneath him.

His other hand flattens to the bed and he presses down, fighting the feeling of someone grabbing his shoulders to try and haul him back and away from the bed. It's like his hand has fused to Carl's stomach, he smells burning flesh. He can hear Lori screaming.

Someone is clawing at his shoulders, trying to get him away, but Daryl grits his teeth and fights them off as best he can. Carl's eyes are starting to glow, his eyelids lighting up like someone is shining a light through them. He feels the boy's heart leap up like it's trying to escape his chest.

"Daryl, stop!" It's Lori's voice, then Shane's – Shane is shouting at him. How did he get here so quickly? There are more people in the room and Carl's eyes open, his lips part. Light shines out from his skin like his nerves have been replaced with sunlight. Daryl's hand aches, his arm burns like he dipped it in molten iron. His other hand is wrapped around the headboard to make sure he doesn't get pulled away.

As the seconds pass, the shouting gets louder. Daryl hears the voices but his brain doesn't register the words. In his head it's static, building and building like a wall of earth crumbling off the side of a mountain and Daryl hears the rumble of the earthquake coming and he's on shaky ground that will split apart down the middle, he knows it's coming, something's going to break and it might be his vessel, it might be Carl.

Then Carl jerks, his eyes open and clear to the bright blue he shares with his father, and he screams. He claws at Daryl's hand and Daryl feels the heat snuff out as easily as a flame under a bucket of water. He jerks his hand back and his palm aches but he sees nothing there, no burn or injury. On either hand. Raphael's grace healed both of them.

He sits back, breathing hard, and, registers the fact that there are hands on his shoulders, yanking him back and off the bed. He collapses next to the lantern and turns it on and sees Rick standing in front of him, but his back is turned, like he's shielding Daryl from an attack. Shane is in the doorway, his eyes wide. Lori's face is pale and wet with tears, she's sobbing openly and holding Shane's arm. Maggie is in the doorway with Beth by her side, wide-eyed on Daryl.

Then, Carl starts to cough, and rolls onto his side with a moan, and Lori seems to collapse on herself like a dead star. "Oh my God," she says, and flings herself over her son. Carl lets out a weak protest, more like a child embarrassed at being kissed by his mother than out of any actual pain. Daryl can see that where there was blood and that ugly wound, there's nothing. The stitches fall out with no skin to hold together. Carl looks as fresh and new as he had the day before.

"How the Hell…?" That's Shane. He sees what Daryl sees, what Rick and Maggie and Beth and Lori are seeing. Carl opens his eyes and clings to his mother, bleary and groggy but alive and well. Daryl smiles, pulling his knees up and resting his elbows on them.

Rick's back hits the wall by Daryl, and he slides down to a crouch, his eyes wide. "Did you…?" He turns to meet Daryl's eyes.

"Raphael," he replies, lifting his hand. "The healer." His fingers curl and he lowers his arm. Now that it's done, his body is feeling the price of so much energy being used. He's exhausted to the core and feels like he can barely keep his eyes open, but he forces himself to keep his head lifted and watch as Lori lets Carl lay back down. Her wide, tear-filled eyes land on him.

"Thank you," she whispers, and Daryl smiles, seeing her soul alight with joy and love for her son. Her soul is starting to look a lot more like Shane's, full of adoration and passion. Now that she's starting to understand Daryl's place, and his use – and is starting to believe, her jealousy is fading. There are still dark green lines in her soul but Daryl feels, not for the first time, that maybe he can save these people as well.

Maybe they're not destined for the cull.

"I…he did this?" Shane asks, his eyes wide and looking at Daryl.

Daryl nods. He's so tired, he feels it like his bones are made of lead and his muscles have turned to marble. Raphael is the healer, but that healing power has to come from somewhere. Raphael hadn't been there to give his grace, so he had drawn on Daryl's soul and his body's energy to do it. Of course, technically, since Daryl has no bucket to fill, his energy is limitless when it comes to what his soul can do to heal people, but his physical body is not without its limits.

He rests his temple on Rick's shoulder and sighs.

Carl stirs, opening his eyes and sitting upright with a gasp. Lori sits next to him, petting his hair and letting out a soothing, shushing sound.

"Hush, baby, you're alright," he says, petting through his hair. Carl trembles, his fists clenching tight in the sheets, and he turns his head and finds Daryl's eyes.

"Lucifer," he breathes, and Daryl frowns, raising his head. "You…I saw something. Michael and Raphael need your help."

Daryl's eyes dart to Maggie and Beth, anxiety curling up in his stomach because the women don't know anything about this – not even Lori, despite what she saw, knows anything about Lucifer's past, or the weapons, or the other Archangels watching over their journey.

Rick stands and herds Maggie and Beth out of the room. "We need a minute," he says. "I'm sorry. I'll explain everything." And he closes the door behind them, leaving Shane, Lori, and Carl alone in the room with Daryl and himself.

"Lucifer," Lori repeats. "Who is Lucifer?"

"Be quiet," Rick says. "Let him talk."

Daryl can't gather the energy to get to his feet, so he just stares at Carl. His mouth is open in shock and he can't read anything in Carl's soul, there's no trace of Archangel grace in him, or sin, or anything like that. He looks as any child does before they mature. "You saw them?" he asks.

Carl nods. Then, he frowns, and puts his head in his hands. "It's fuzzy."

"What do you remember?" Shane asks, his voice low and urgent. He's clearly trying to resist the urge to shake the answers out of Carl, but the room is tense and vibrating with energy.

"I don't – there was this bright light, and then I saw a city. And there were these two guys fighting a bunch of those…things." Carl winces, looking up. He's clearly shaken, disturbed by what he's seen. Daryl swallows and makes a small gesture, encouraging him to continue. Carl meets his eyes. "And they turned to me and smiled at me and told me to tell you to come to them."

"They called me Lucifer?" Daryl asks.

Carl nods. "But I knew they meant you."

"What did they look like?"

Carl bites his lip. "One of them…I didn't see his face. He looked like a policeman, he had all black on and this giant sword. Another was a big guy, he looked like…" He shakes his head. "It sounds crazy. But it was like he was glowing."

Daryl nods. "Definitely sounds like them," he says.

"Michael," Lori repeats. "Didn't you say that was your brother's name?"

"I lied." Daryl looks up at Rick and holds out his hand. "Can you help me up?"

Rick goes to him, helping him to his feet. Daryl's knees shake and his head starts to swim, blood making his brain go fuzzy and want to shut down. He growls and clings to Rick's shoulder tightly to keep himself upright. "Do you know where they were?" he asks Carl.

"Atlanta," Carl replies.

Daryl closes his eyes, sighing heavily. "Fuck," he mutters. Of course, Michael would dive right into the thick of the fight, into one of the biggest cities in the United States with one of the biggest surface area for the population. Michael has always loved the fight – it's famous enough that even Daryl, who had never met him before now, knows that.

"Atlanta?" Shane repeats, his eyes wide. "We can't go to _Atlanta_."

"No one said anythin' about you goin'," Daryl replies.

"So you want us to split the group?" Lori demands. "No."

Daryl winces, putting his hand to his forehead. His eyes hurt to keep open and he feels every second he's on his feet is another battle with gravity that he keeps almost losing. "It's late," Rick finally says, Daryl can hear him speaking, his voice rumbling against where Daryl's weight is resting heavily against him. "We're all exhausted and today's been a crazy day. We'll sleep and discuss it in the morning."

"I'm not leaving Carl," Lori says adamantly. Daryl didn't expect anything different.

"I got it," Daryl says when Rick starts to try hauling him out of the room. He puts a hand on Rick's chest and moves his arm from Rick's shoulders, wincing when his body protests losing its crutch. It feels like there are weights in his shoes and lining each seam and fold of his jeans and shirt. But he forces himself to walk tall and remain upright as he heads to the door. Rick follows along behind him and Daryl tries not to make it look like he uses the wall and bannister to keep him up.

"Daryl!" It's Beth. She runs over to him and stops in front of him, her eyes wide and her soul clouded with worry – worry isn't a sin, but it makes people more vulnerable to it. Daryl lifts his head and meets her eyes, seeing Maggie standing like a sentinel behind her. "I…that was incredible. I've never seen anything like it."

"A think the world's gonna hold a lotta firsts for all of us," Daryl replies. His voice is thick with exhaustion, he can hear Rick, Shane, and Lori exchanging muted words and wishes Rick would just hurry the fuck up because he made it this far but he's probably not going to be able to handle the stairs or the trek to the lean-to on his own.

"What did you _do_?" Beth asks.

Daryl sighs, leaning his forehead against the bannister and sinking to his knees. He hears her give a soft sound of worry and her small, dainty hand touches his shoulder. Daryl doesn't have the energy to shrug her off.

"Tomorrow morning, our group is gonna be talkin' about where to go next," he says. He hears footsteps, and looks up to see Rick closing the door behind him as he steps out into the hallway. Beth's hand jerks back and Rick's eyes flash, but he doesn’t say anything as he approaches Daryl and helps him to his feet again. "You're welcome to join us."

Beth nods, wide-eyed, pressing her lips together, and Rick slings one of Daryl's arms over his shoulder and helps him to the stairs.

They move slowly, Daryl's breathing is labored and he remembers how he'd felt when he'd first fallen, when his lungs had been coughing up all the years of smoking without consequence, when he's felt the aches and pains of an abused vessel that his power hadn't made him suffer. He feels weak as a newborn, trembling in Rick's arms, and when they step outside and the cold air hits his face he collapses to his knees again, bringing Rick down with him until they're little more than a pile of limbs on the porch of the house.

"Are you alright?" Rick asks, thinly veiled panic in his voice. He has a hand on Daryl's neck, feeling for his pulse, the other gently touching his chest.

"It just…really took it outta me," Daryl replies weakly, wincing when his heart leaps in his chest like he's just taken a shot of adrenaline straight to his lungs. He heaves in a breath of the cold air and watches it mist in front of him.

"Did you know you could do that?" Rick asks. "Heal him?"

Daryl nods. "Kinda," he replies. "I knew Raphael had given me the power, but I didn't know what it was gonna feel like. It felt like…like I had to. My hand was burning and I _had_ to go help Carl."

Rick hums. He takes his hand from Daryl's neck and pets his hair, Daryl realizes he's been sweating and his hair is damp now. "Do you think they're really there?" Rick asks. "In Atlanta?"

"I don't see why not," Daryl replies. "Raphael isn't an Angel of intercession. He doesn't…come to people, really. Maybe the only way he can communicate with me is through healing, or by sending someone else."

"I'm just worried it might not be him sending the message, you know?"

Daryl frowns. Truthfully, he hadn't considered that. But Rick is right – it could be Samael, trying to trick them. But he has nothing to gain by leading them to Atlanta, unless he wants to get them killed. But Daryl is sure that isn't his plan. It doesn't make sense to kill Rick, not when he needs him for Cain, for the Great Plan or whatever bullshit Daryl should be calling it.

Rick sighs and squeezes Daryl's nape gently. "You think you can stand?" he asks.

Daryl bites his lower lip and nods, as Rick sits back to help him to his feet. He keeps his weight on Rick because he knows he can't stand on his own, and they make their way back to the lean-to. Carol and Sophia are asleep inside. Daryl sits down heavily, a huge breath leaving him, and he collapses with a groan on his back, Rick plastered to his side.

"I panicked when I woke up and you weren't there," Rick whispers, facing him in the darkness. There's little moonlight but Daryl can make out the outlines of his nose and jaw in the darkness. He bites his lower lip and lets out an apologetic sound. "I woke up and hear Lori and Shane shouting, saying you were doin' somethin' to Carl -."

"She tried to stop me," Daryl says. "I don't blame her."

"I know – I know you wouldn't hurt him. You said you wouldn't hurt a kid and I believe you. But I thought…" Rick shakes his head and Daryl sees a flicker of red fire along the edges of his soul. "I don't know what I thought."

"She saw," Daryl murmurs. "I think she'll finally start to believe."

"When you were talkin' to Beth, Shane and I tried to calm her down. She's freaking out, though. She doesn't know what she saw."

"Yes she does," Daryl says, rolling his eyes. "It's always a struggle, tryin' to get someone to believe. What happened to humans to make 'em like this?"

"You were human once, too."

"I still am," Daryl says. "I always was. Metatron and Gabriel and Jesus…they always reminded me of that."

Rick huffs. "I had another dream," he whispers.

"About Negan?"

"No," Rick replies, shaking his head. "I didn't recognize this guy."

"What did he look like?" Daryl asks.

"At first he was just…darkness. A giant black shape. Then he kind of changed. It's weird, I know what he looked like, but I wouldn't be able to describe it. One second he had brown hair, then blond, then black. His eyes though. His eyes didn't change."

"Sounds like you might have seen Cain," Daryl says

"It made me afraid," Rick whispers. "I wasn't afraid when I spoke to Negan, but I was afraid, talkin' to him."

Daryl bites his lower lip, gently petting a hand through Rick's hair. "I'm not gonna let either of them hurt you," he says, trying to sound assured so that he can calm Rick's fears. "Or your family."

"I know." Rick sighs, sliding closer. "Let's try and get some sleep."

 

 

 

Dawn breaks and Daryl rises with it, snagging a cigarette from his bag with Rick's lighter and sitting on the edge of the paddock, on the other side than where the horse is kept inside. He smokes slowly, savoring the flavor and the burning sensation in his lungs whenever he takes an inhale.

After a while, he sees Lori, Shane, Beth, and Maggie come out of the house. Then, following behind, is Carl. He smiles, seeing that the boy is walking normally, and looks like none of the last twenty four hours have affected him at all. He sends a thought of thanks to Raphael, unsure if the Archangel can hear him but feeling like he owes it to him nonetheless.

They all start to walk towards the fire pit and Daryl stands when he hears Rick get up, greeting him with a smile and jerking his head towards the group. Rick nods and walks with Daryl towards the fire pit and they all sit down on the logs around it.

Lori sits next to Carl, an arm around his slender shoulders and pulling him close. Shane sits on his other side, Rick by Shane, Daryl by Rick, and Maggie and Beth take up the rest of the circle. There's space for Carol and Sophia when they wake up.

Daryl takes one last inhale and flicks the butt of his cigarette into the pit.

"So," he says, and then stops, because he's not even sure where to start.

"How did you do it?" Lori asks, her eyes wide, her soul blazing with wary curiosity.

Daryl sighs, looking down at his hands. "Alright, I'm gonna tell y'all my life story. You just gotta…wait until the end until you say anythin', alright?"

Beth is practically on the edge of her seat, vibrating with curiosity. In contrast, her sister is more stoic but Daryl can see her soul, see how brightly she shines with anticipation. Shane and Rick are wearing carefully schooled expressions.

"Alright, well…" Daryl runs his hands through his hair, sighing again. It's strange, the amount of times he's had to try and tell this story. It doesn't get any easier. "So, twenty years ago, I was in a real bad motorcycle accident in North Carolina. I died. And then there was this guy and he showed up and told me he was the Devil – that he was Lucifer. He offered me the job and I took it."

He doesn't raise his eyes, doesn't dare look at their expressions, their reactions.

"I was Lucifer until about a week ago, right before all this shit hit the fan. Because I…well, I kind of visited the original Devil. His name is Samael and he decided to come to Earth and that's what started the dead rising."

Rick shifts his weight next to him, pressing closer so their thighs are touching. It's a small gesture but it helps to relax Daryl; "Michael and Raphael and Gabriel are part of the original four, and they came to me and gave me the weapons and told me we needed to go North. No idea what they're doing in Atlanta, but if Michael tells you to go somewhere, you have to do it."

"But how did…?" Lori asks, then stops herself, pressing her lips together.

"It's Raphael's power," Daryl explains to her. "He's the Healing Hand. When Carl got injured I felt his power in me and I knew I had to help." He raises his eyes and meets her gaze. "I'm sorry I scared ya, really I am, but I would never hurt your boy. I wouldn't hurt any of you."

"So…what _are_ you?" Maggie asks, sitting forward. "Some kind of fallen angel?"

Daryl snorts. "Nah," he says. "I'm just as human as the rest of you now."

"Is Michael, like, your boss or something?" Shane asks, frowning. "Why do you have to do what he says?"

"If you'd met him, you'd know the answer to that," Rick says, speaking up. He shakes his had and lets out an awed breath.

"You've met 'em?" Beth asks.

Rick nods. "Daryl took me to the place where they gave him weapons. I met all three of them – Gabriel, Raphael, and Michael. I've never felt anything like that. It was…fuckin' surreal." Rick looks at Maggie, then at Daryl, and bites his lower lip. "You look like her."

Maggie frowns. "Like who?"

"Gabriel," Daryl says. "She likes to take female form when she's on Earth. The last time I saw her, she was the spittin' image of you. And her mark was on your house, so I knew you guys would be friendly enough, would provide a safe haven for us."

"That…I don’t know how I'm meant to feel about that."

"It's a sign," Beth says, breathlessly, looking to her sister. "Daddy always taught us about God, prophets, the angels… It's a sign, Maggie."

Daryl hums, and looks to Lori and Shane. "I don't expect you to come with me," he says. "It's safe here, and I can't even pretend to know what kinda shit we'll be walkin' into, but if Michael's there, it'll be a fight. If he needs my help, it's because he needs backup."

"I'm not lettin' you go alone," Rick says adamantly, glaring at Daryl as though daring him to protest. Daryl sighs through his nose, looking down.

"None of you are goin' alone," Shane says. "We gotta stick together, no matter what happens."

Daryl wants to protest, but Rick is still looking at him, and it makes him feel small in comparison. He sighs and wishes he'd grabbed another cigarette. "Well, either way, I gotta leave today," he says. "If Michael needs me, I have to go."

"You can't just leave," Beth says. "Not on your own."

Daryl shakes his head. "I'm not gonna argue with everyone," he says, standing. "I'm leaving in an hour. Whoever's ready at that point can come with me, I guess. I'm not gonna stop ya. But I have to leave."

"Daryl, this could be a trap," Rick says, reaching out and grabbing the edge of his shirt tightly so that Daryl can't walk away. "We don't know who really sent that message."

"I can't afford to take that chance," Daryl replies. "If Michael and Raphael fall…" He shudders. He doesn't want to think about the catastrophe that would arise without those powerful weapons of good on their side. "And Gabriel promised me her guidance. I'll know soon enough if it's real or not."

Rick stands. "You have so much _faith_ ," he growls, his soul flickering at the edges with red and yellow – anger and fear. He speaks lowly but Daryl knows he's being heard by everyone gathered. "I can't – I can't trust these kinds of things. I can't believe this kinda shit."

Daryl presses his lips together and looks around at their audience. He doesn't want to have this fight now. He doesn't want to have it at all. "You were willin' to follow me North," he says, meeting Rick's eyes again. "So you should be willin' to follow me here, too. I didn't even ask you to come. Never suggested it."

"I ain't lettin' you outta my sight," Rick says. "You cause trouble when I do."

"At least this way, you know the trouble's already there," Daryl replies. He looks at everyone else again. "One hour," he says, and then he turns and leaves the firepit. He can hear them breaking off into conversation immediately, and Rick's hurried footsteps of pursuit.

"Daryl, _stop_ ," Rick commands, grabbing Daryl's shoulder and spinning him around. They come to a stop on the outside of the fence. Daryl sees Beth stand and rush to the house, Maggie close behind. "Just – just fuckin' _stop_ for a second and _listen_ to me."

"What are you gonna say I haven't already heard?" Daryl demands, throwing his arms out to either side of him. "You said it yourself – you met Michael. I can't disobey, Rick. I can't ignore him when he calls for me."

"You're human now," Rick says. "You have free will."

"I'm Lucifer until someone else is," Daryl says. "So if Michael summons Lucifer, I have to go."

"Then give it up," Rick snarls. "Give up the fuckin' title and be done with it all!"

"I _can't_ ," Daryl replies. "I don't know how! And even if I did, I wouldn't."

" _Why_?"

"Because Samael is after you, and he's after me, and if I'm not Lucifer anymore, he's that much closer to getting what he wants. I can't fight what I can't see, Rick. I can't protect you when I don't know where the threat's comin' from."

"I -." Rick stops. He looks like he's in pain. "Daryl, please," he whispers, and reaches out to rest a gentle hand on Daryl's arm. Daryl is reminded of how Rick touched him that first night, the first time they had that honest heart-to-heart. The first time Rick kissed him, and fucked him.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Daryl replies after another moment of silence.

"I just…" Rick shakes his head and takes a step closer. His hand slides up Daryl's arm, into his hair, and he rests their foreheads together. "I just need to know that you know what you're doin'. I wanna trust Michael, and Gabriel and all the rest of 'em, but I don't know 'em. And it ain't just me we're riskin', but my family too."

"That's their choice," Daryl says. "I never asked them to come with, neither."

"But they need to, right?" Rick asks. "You said Raphael kept Lori and Shane with us at the cabin. Gabriel put her mark on the door. That means they need to come with us."

"Yeah," Daryl murmurs. "But I can't force 'em."

"That's the thing about the Devil," Rick whispers. "It never feels like force."

"If you have somethin' to say, just fuckin' say it," Daryl growls, pulling back. "You can't still think I'm evil and still touch me like you do. Ain't gonna let you."

"I don't think you're evil," Rick says, "but you should know better'n anyone that there's more than one side to a person. I've heard you talk. You still think like the Devil."

"Well, so do you," Daryl hisses. Rick blinks at him and bites his lower lip, something like shame flickering in his soul for the briefest moment. "I said it before – I'm not arguin' about this. I'm goin', and you don't have the power to stop me."

"I'm coming with you," Rick says. "I am. I swore I'd follow you and I meant it."

Daryl regards him for a long moment, before he nods. Rick seems to deflate at that, and rubs his fingers across the bridge of his nose, before he sighs. He lowers his hands and reaches for Daryl again, pulling him close and kissing him deeply.

Daryl can't stop the small moan that escapes when Rick touches him, and when he pulls back he can't help smiling. "You're trying to distract me," he says.

Rick's eyes flash. "Is it working?"

Daryl smirks. "No," he says. "But it was a good attempt. Come help me pack."


End file.
